


Windfall

by Elvendork



Series: Fortunes [2]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 17:38:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simply put, dying changes everything, no matter how temporary it is.</p><p>
  <i>Sequel to my prompt fill "Just My Luck".</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Windfall

**Author's Note:**

> Oh come off it, you didn’t _really_ think I’d leave it there, did you?
> 
>  **Warnings:** angst; aftermath of a car accident; serious injury; bad language; allusions to suicide (well, once, sort of, but warning just to be on the safe side).
> 
> I don't own; no profit; the usual.

At 09.03am on the twenty second of an uncommonly cold January in central Fitton, time all but stops for three people.

One is in a van. His name is Jeremy, his wife has just left him and he is a careless driver on sheet ice and compacted snow taking a corner too quickly. He opens his mouth in a shout of horror he isn’t quite sure manages to reach his lips and pummels frantically at the foot pedals, too late.

The second man is called Martin. He is small and slight but padded out with enough layers to survive the Arctic. He is tremendously unlucky. He doesn’t scream when he slips, just gasps. It’s not until half a second later that he realises what’s going to happen, and by then he’s too numb to do anything else.

The third man drives a Lexus powered by aviation fuel. Sharp and quick-witted though he is, even he isn’t fast enough to stop events unfolding as they do. He sees it with moments to spare but only registers it when he hears the thud, and he doesn’t even know where the thud comes from when he does.

It could be the impact of the second man’s body on the van – bonnet, windshield, bonnet again – ground. It could be the thunderous halt of his own heart as his brain struggles to process what his eyes are telling it.

Or it could be the crack of his car door against the lamp-post as he throws it open while the car is still moving and scrambles desperately to his feet, screaming the second man’s name.

00000

‘MARTIN! Martin – get out of the way – _Martin_!’

If pedestrians weren’t parting like the Red Sea before him, Douglas wouldn’t even know it’s him that’s shouting. He shoves his way unceremoniously past anyone in his path, slipping and sliding on the smooth ground but somehow remaining upright long enough to reach Martin’s side before he collapses to his knees. He hears the sharp sound as he hits the ice but doesn’t feel the pain – no, _no_ –

‘Martin, Martin can you hear me?’ he asks urgently, forcing himself not to look at his Captain’s legs, _don’t look at the legs_ , crumpled and bent the wrong way and broken and spinal damage and _Martin_ oh God no…

His fingers are shaking as he searches for a pulse and his face is wet but of course they are it’s freezing and snowing of course they are it doesn’t mean anything it can’t mean anything because Martin Martin Martin –

 _Christ it’s so damn cold he’s shivering too much to even find a pulse_! Somewhere in a dark recess at the back of his mind he distantly recognises that his eyes are oddly hot for this freezing atmosphere, and there is a leaden weight in his chest. The icy air is constricting his throat too, it must be, or else why would it feel so tight?

‘Martin – Martin –’ it’s all he can do, all he can say; Douglas Richardson, unflappable Sky God, reduced to kneeling in the snow and resisting the overwhelming urge to shake his Captain’s shoulders in an effort to wake him – ‘hasn’t anyone called an ambulance yet?’ Douglas finds himself yelling, ‘someone call a bloody ambulance! Martin – Martin wake up, for God’s sake, wake up Captain. Sir, open your eyes. _Sir_!’

Somebody touches his shoulder from behind, whispers something he doesn’t care to listen to, and he throws them off furiously.

‘No – no –’ what is he answering? Who has spoken?

‘Sir, I think –’

No, no, that’s _his_ line, don’t they know that? He’s not Sir, Martin is Sir – but no, he isn’t, he’s a pompous stupid stubborn silly little man and he needs to _wake up_!

Douglas doesn’t hear himself shout the last words out loud. He can barely see his fingers linking together of their own accord through strangely blurry vision.

Every atom, every fibre of Douglas’s entire being is at once focused like light through a magnifying glass and he couldn’t ever say what triggered it.

He hasn’t performed CPR in years. His technique is rusty, out of practice, probably clumsy and dangerous but no one dare approach him and most of all he is _desperate_. There’s every possibility he could be causing damage as much as repairing it but he can’t just do _nothing_ and his brain seems to have gone completely offline. He can’t think; he can only _do_.

Please – please – please – please –

Every compression is punctuated by a gasped plea.

 _God moves in mysterious ways in order to do lovely things for Douglas Richardson_ …

Well move now damnit – Martin has a good few decades’ worth of spectacular teasing material in him yet. He owes Douglas hundreds of cheese trays before he’s let off the hook that easily…

Douglas’s usually cool and well-ordered mind runs down nonsense tracks of useless pleading as seconds drag on and on…Somewhere in the distance there is a siren…Martin’s heart is still not beating…and it’s so _cold_ …

But Douglas can fix everything…everything…Douglas can…but he can always…

Except this.

And then Martin’s face bursts into his mind’s eye looking dangerously hopeful…

_So…you’re actually not? …You really don’t have a secret plan up your sleeve?_

_Not you as well;_ no _, I_ really _don’t!_

…And that _look_...innocent, frightened disappointment…

Douglas renews his efforts frantically, begging and praying silently to any deity that cares to listen.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

And then like a drowning man pulled from the water Martin _gasps_ , his long fingers clutching with surprising strength at Douglas’s arms like a lifeline. He takes great shuddering gulps of air and his heart surges to life once more…

Douglas sags back, weak with something far stronger than mere relief. For the first time in many, many years, he sobs.

00000

Douglas is still shaking inexplicably by the time they reach the hospital and he tries for twenty full minutes to calm himself down before he calls Carolyn on his mobile outside the hospital doors. He stamps his feet in an unsuccessful attempt to stave off a bone-deep chill which has nothing to do with the sub-zero temperatures.

‘Douglas? What on Earth do you want?’

‘Carolyn –’ Douglas begins, and for the first time in living memory finds himself stuck for what to say. ‘It’s…Martin.’

‘What’s he done now?’ Carolyn demands sharply, trying to ignore the unsettled feeling in her gut at how…how _frightened_ Douglas sounds.

‘He’s in hospital.’

‘Is that Douglas Mum?’ Arthur’s voice sounds muffled but cheerful as always. Douglas passes a hand across his face; this is hard enough with just Carolyn, but with Arthur it is almost impossible. ‘Did I hear him say that Skip’s in hospital? Well obviously I did hear him say that, but is that actually what he did in fact say or I am I just wrong again? Because –’

‘Arthur,’ Carolyn interrupts.

‘Sorry. It’s just – has he sprained his ankle again? Does he want us to move another piano? I don’t think the roads are –’

‘Arthur, go be elsewhere. Douglas,’ she lowers her voice and turns away, ‘what’s happened?’

‘There was an accident,’ Douglas reports hollowly. She doesn’t need to ask how bad it is; she can hear it in his voice. ‘He was hit by a van.’

‘Oh good Lord…’ Carolyn breathes.

‘The hospital will probably ring his relatives, but I –’ he stops, lost for what to say. It is a mark of the gravity of the situation that Carolyn doesn’t even think of picking him up on such a golden opportunity for taunting. She answers instead with a brisk ‘we’ll be there in half an hour’ to save him the trouble of having to continue. Then she hangs up, and takes a deep breath before turning back around to see Arthur still hovering in exactly the same position as before. Her heart seems to triple in weight.

‘Mum? Is Skipper alright?’ Carolyn looks at the innocently concerned expression on his face and can’t bring herself to tell him the truth.

‘Of course he is,’

‘Oh good,’ Arthur beams, ‘can we go and see him anyway though? I want to show him my new hat.’

‘Yes,’ says Carolyn quietly, wondering how she’s going to explain this to him when they get there. ‘Go get your coat.’

00000

When Carolyn and Arthur arrive with Herc in tow, Douglas doesn’t comment. He knows for a fact that Herc lives much too far away to have gotten here in this time unless he was staying over, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Even though he is not one of MJN, and therefore a part of Douglas’s brain insists he shouldn’t be here, his presence doesn’t feel like the intrusion it might have.

Nobody speaks. Even Arthur, who is pale and frightened looking, sticks firmly to Carolyn’s side and says not a word, seemingly having worked out on his own the gist of what has happened.

Carolyn sits next to Douglas in the waiting room, Arthur between she and Herc. For a moment Douglas can’t help but think he looks like a child between his parents; far more so than when he was around Gordon. Some of Douglas’s dislike of Hercules drains away without his permission. When did he get so sentimental?

00000

An hour drags by impossibly slowly in heavy, expectant silence. Carolyn checks her watch every few seconds at first, until Herc reaches round behind Arthur to squeeze her shoulder. She stops, closing her eyes with a grimace as though of physical pain and leaning back in the chair. Arthur fidgets constantly, and no one tells him to stop. Herc is grim and stoic. Douglas sits forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together and head hanging, staring aimlessly at the floor.

The hospital is packed; people are constantly moving around them, but for all the attention the tiny group shows their surroundings, they could be utterly alone.

A doctor emerges from somewhere and four heads snap towards him, but he doesn’t approach them. They sink back into their own thoughts, trying not to allow themselves to contemplate the awful possibility hanging over their heads.

At some point – no one is sure how much time has passed by now – Arthur gets up and starts to pace. Carolyn makes as if to reach out to him, but her fingers just brush his arm before she sits back without a word. Douglas ignores him. Herc’s eyes follow his progress automatically, like watching a slow motion tennis match.

‘He’ll be fine, won’t he?’ Arthur bursts out eventually, shattering the thick silence violently. His gaze flickers between the three still seated, eyes wide and imploring, but he doesn’t stop pacing. ‘He’ll be fine. Skip’s going to be fine, right Mum? Douglas? He can’t be – I mean obviously he won’t – it just – well I mean – he’ll be fine.’

Carolyn and Douglas both open their mouths to reply, but Herc beats them to it, standing and moving swiftly to block Arthur’s incessant path.

‘Yes, Arthur,’ he promises quietly, pulling the unresisting steward into a gentle hug, ‘everything will be alright.’

Nobody contradicts him.

00000

‘How bad was it exactly?’ Carolyn asks eventually, in a tone that makes it all too clear she has been steeling herself to say this for a long time.

With a doubtful glance towards Arthur, who has fallen asleep with his head resting on her shoulder, Douglas answers without meeting her eyes. ‘I was in my car,’ he says mechanically, ‘I saw him get hit. He had no – he had no pulse. I managed to bring him back with CPR before the ambulance arrived but he didn’t regain consciousness.’ He mentions nothing of the blind panic or the frantic begging. Carolyn doesn’t press for any more details, but swallows and nods her head in understanding.

00000

Minutes, hours or days more pass before a man makes as if to approach them in the waiting room. He walks towards them and hesitates, caught between passing by and moving on. He is not a doctor, so none of the group pays him any attention, though Douglas’s eyes follow him absently without really registering anything.

The man opens his mouth when he pauses, looking towards them briefly before averting his gaze almost guiltily.

Guiltily.

The word rattles around in Douglas’s head without anything to connect to. The vague sense of something familiar tugs at him.

Guiltily.

Has he seen the man before? He wonders it without meaning to, not putting any energy into the speculation but not avoiding it either. It’s not important – until it is.

Yes. He recognises the man.

An instant later he’s on his feet and has lurched forwards thoughtlessly, grabbing the wide eyed intruder by the front of his shirt and slamming him hard into the wall behind.

‘You son of a bitch,’ he growls, more dangerously than even he would ever have thought possible. The man twists in his grip, pulling away, but Douglas simply smacks him once more into the wall; his head cracks against it with a sickening thud but neither of them seems to notice.

‘I – I wasn’t – what – get your hands off me!’

People are looking. Standing. Moving towards them, muttering, calling – someone might lay a restraining hand on Douglas’s shoulder, someone might even shout encouragement. None of them exist to Douglas. All that matters is that _yes_ this man is familiar and _yes_ guiltily means something and _yes_ there is something Douglas can do now, something to alleviate this pounding, incessant fury – this _fear_.

‘Do you even realise what you’ve done?’ Douglas demands, ‘you stupid, thoughtless –’

‘It wasn’t my fault!’ the man protests.

‘Well then who the _fuck’s_ fault was it? Mine? Martin’s?’

‘Who –?’ begins the van driver automatically, and fire flashes in Douglas’s eyes.

‘The man you might well have _killed_ you –’

‘Douglas!’

‘I didn’t – he slipped! I wasn’t – you can’t – I’m sorry, it wasn’t – I – but –’

‘If you can’t fucking drive then don’t _fucking_ get into the van!’ Douglas yells, ‘and _don’t_ , don’t you _dare_ claim it wasn’t your fault because you know damn well it was!’ He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what he’s going to do. He doesn’t know where this anger came from. It was an accident. Martin _did_ slip. If he hadn’t it would never have happened, regardless of this man’s driving capabilities. Douglas isn’t thinking about that – about anything. God, why does his chest _hurt_ so much?

‘ _Douglas_!’

‘Look, I’m sorry, but I – you can’t really think – I’m _sorry_ – please –’

And Douglas’s eyes are hot now; his throat hurts almost as much as his chest. His senses are simultaneously sharpened and dulled. He’s seeing but not noticing, hearing but not listening. Someone is calling his name.

‘Douglas.’ The voice is calmer now he’s stopped shouting. He doesn’t have the energy left for shouting. Then again, ‘Douglas.’ Slowly bringing him back to reality, back to sense. He releases the man suddenly and steps back. The man – Douglas doesn’t know his name, doesn’t care, doesn’t want to – shifts nervously but doesn’t move away from the wall yet, as though afraid of another attack.

‘Leave him,’ the voice commands, and Douglas recognises it but doesn’t at the same time. It doesn’t say anything more, but tugs him gently away while the man finally seems to find the courage to move, straightening his shirt and hurrying off without a backward glance. Douglas watches him go. How has he let himself get so out of control? What’s _happening_ to him? He doesn’t do this, he doesn’t _get_ emotional or…he just doesn’t. Ever. Certainly not for Martin…except even that thought brings an agonising stab of irrational guilt. When did Martin become so damned _important_? When did Douglas let his guard down for long enough to let the Captain work his way inside it?

Eventually he looks at the person leading him back to his seat. He’s too numb for surprise when he sees Carolyn, her face set like flint, pulling him along by the arm and grinding her teeth furiously. Whether her anger is at him or the van driver he doesn’t know.

He sits down and tries not to think.

00000

None of them are entirely sure how much later it is when the doctor finally approaches them. Events since arriving at the hospital have been in snatches; slim moments of action or speech with nothing to connect them.

Words swirl around Douglas’s head, random flashes of long forgotten medical jargon from University; the sight of Martin’s still, pale face swims before him. Carolyn looks exhausted as she stands up.

‘You’re here for Mr Crieff?’ the doctor asks; all four of them nod. There has been no sign yet of Simon or Caitlin, and dredging up fragments of old conversations with Martin Douglas realises it’s highly likely they aren’t even in the country. With this snow he isn’t sure how long it will take them to return even once they hear the news. Whatever that news might be.

‘Are you family?’

‘Yes,’ Arthur speaks before anyone else has a chance. His face doesn’t go a funny colour and he doesn’t fall over; there is nothing in his expression but complete unguarded honesty. Though the doctor doesn’t look convinced, he doesn’t object either. Perhaps he catches sight of Douglas, Carolyn and Herc lined up behind Arthur as though readying themselves for a fight and realises the futility of arguing with them.

‘He’s out of surgery and in the ICU,’ the doctor tells them, to an enormous collective sigh of relief. ‘I won’t bother you with details now, but if he regains consciousness in the next twenty four hours then his chances are good,’

‘If?’ Carolyn echoes,

‘Good?’ Douglas puts in, ‘how good? Chances of what?’

‘At this stage it is impossible to say. Mr Crieff has sustained severe injuries, but he’s a very lucky man to have survived this far. We won’t really know anything more until he wakes up; there is a chance of brain damage, but we believe the risk to be minimal. The physical injuries will take time and effort but given the chance should heal perfectly well,’ he flashes them a comforting smile, evidently unaware of the fact he is the only man in the history of the universe ever to call Martin Crieff _lucky_.

‘Can we see him?’ Arthur asks,

‘Well…’ he hesitates uncertainly. The combined glares of Douglas, Carolyn and Herc are thunderous.

‘Come now,’ says Herc smoothly, ‘I hardly think the number of visitors is going to have any adverse effect on his health if he isn’t even conscious to be stressed by it.’

‘I – oh, alright. But be careful.’ Douglas rolls his eyes – _careful_? What does he think they’re going to _do_?

Douglas has always doubted the existence of a _deafening hush_. It’s a ridiculous saying really – what on Earth is it supposed to _mean_? But when they walk into the ICU and see Martin, he learns the exact definition of the phrase; he’ll never doubt it again.

There are _sounds_ , of course. Nothing is ever completely silent. There’s a faint hum of machinery, a steady beeping noise, the squeak of their shoes on linoleum, someone further down the ward, which is almost empty, murmuring faintly to someone else. All the way here, escorted by the doctor, they have been lectured and advised against this – really he shouldn’t be allowing it. Mr Crieff is barely out of surgery; too many of them, too soon…his protests, some veiled and some plain as day, have come to nothing. He hesitates at the door, but eventually leaves them.

That’s when the silence falls. The four of them move forward dazedly and gather around Martin’s bed, trying to look past the tubes, the bruises, the shaved patch on his head, the bandages – trying to just see _Martin_. Their pilot. Their Captain. Their friend. Herc remains half a step behind the others respectfully, but Carolyn tugs him forward. Douglas is the first to collapse into a chair.

And the waiting continues.

00000

‘What was he _thinking_ , going out in this weather?’ Carolyn exclaims furiously some time later, ‘the stupid boy! And you –’ she turns to Douglas, who actually flinches at the look on her face, ‘what were _you_ doing, out driving in this? What in Heaven’s name were you both playing at? What if you had gotten yourself hurt too? Then I’d have _no_ pilots! What am I supposed to do with no pilots?’

‘Carolyn –’ Douglas tries,

‘Don’t you _Carolyn_ me you impertinent little berk! Stupid, reckless behaviour the pair of you –’

‘If I hadn’t been there, what would have happened to Martin?’ Douglas demands loudly, cutting her off and glad somehow to have something to _do_ , someone on whom to take out his frustrations, ‘it’s a damn good thing I _was_ there!’

They are sitting either side of Martin’s bed and glaring at one another. Herc, standing several feet away with his back to them, looks over his shoulder cautiously but doesn’t say anything. The few other visitors across the ward are eyeing them with disapproval, tutting and frowning, but none of the group takes any notice.

‘Yes, well you wouldn’t have needed to be if he had the slightest brain cell to his name! What sort of pilot can’t even cross the road without getting hurt?’

‘Mum –’

‘He wasn’t _crossing_ the road, he just _slipped_ –’

‘As if it makes a difference! The idiotic, foolish –’

‘ _Mum_!’ Arthur jumps to his feet, ‘stop it – don’t – just _stop it_!’ He bursts into tears and instantly Carolyn is on her feet with her arms around him, making shushing noises while she rubs soothing circles into his back. Herc glances at Douglas, who looks away.

‘Sshh, there Arthur, don’t worry…I’m sorry,’ Carolyn whispers in an uncharacteristically tender voice, ‘it’s alright, it’s alright…’

00000

After another immeasurable period of time, the four of them are sent home. Visiting hours are over. They can come again tomorrow. They’ll be called if there’s any change, of course. Nonsense words of mingled instruction and comfort none of them really listen to, least of all Arthur, who has never looked so lost.

Carolyn, who lives closest, insists that it’s utter stupidity for either Douglas or Herc to attempt to return home, and they only voice token protests. Douglas doesn’t know, and frankly doesn’t especially care, what has happened to his car; he rode to the hospital in the ambulance. He assumes the police will have moved it, though he barely gives the matter any thought.

Herc cooks once the silent ride to Carolyn’s house is over. She drives unusually carefully even for this weather, inching around corners painfully slowly with a constant expression of fierce concentration on her face that none of them dare interrupt.

Arthur pushes his food around his plate listlessly, nibbles on a few bites, then gives up and ten minutes later is asleep on the sofa. Carolyn makes no pretence at hunger, folding her arms and glaring at the table until Arthur’s impromptu nap gives her an opportunity to leave and fetch a blanket. Herc eats a little, but eventually pushes the plate away with a look of distaste.

Douglas takes one look at the food and walks out.

Everything has a strange unreal quality to it, like a dream. Or more properly, like the moment between dreams and wakefulness, when you have just opened your eyes and can’t quite work out what has happened or where you are. When you aren’t even sure it _was_ a dream. He feels like he’s…drifting. It’s all the more disconcerting because of all the people in the world never to lose their head in a crisis, never to let anything at all bother them even when there doesn’t look to be any reasonable way out…he comes top every time. With only one possible competitor, and that’s Carolyn.

He wanders around the halls of Carolyn’s empty house and probably should feel out of place; when has he ever even actually been inside it before? But he doesn’t. He feels miles away from the others even though they are just downstairs. The house is freezing – or is it just him?

At one point he almost raises a hand to punch something – anything – just to _feel_ – but he doesn’t. He just leans both fists on the wall and breathes. In. Out. Slowly. Think about it. Only about that.

Martin’s face, hopeful. Embarrassed. Disappointed. Annoyed. Amused. Frustrated. Annoyed again. Worried. Still and cold and expressionless with snowflakes settling gently into his hair.

Martin’s hand, fingers curled upwards, thrown out across the ice.

Martin’s hand with an IV line piercing the skin, taped into place. Palm down on white sheets they almost match in colour.

Douglas wants to make some quip to break the silence, even though he is on his own, but none offer themselves up for the taking.

He feels sort of…stuck. As though life suspended itself the moment he saw Martin hit by that van and won’t resume until he wakes up. Douglas has never felt this kind of helplessness before and since it seems the only way to deal with it is to allow himself to go completely numb, he welcomes the sensation – or lack of it. At some point he follows blindly as Carolyn shows him into a spare room. She offers him an extra blanket. He has no clothes other than those he is wearing; Carolyn digs out some of Arthur’s pyjamas and though they don’t quite fit he doesn’t really care as he crawls into bed and prays for sleep.

It doesn’t come. The house creaks around him. It’s freezing; his nose feels like a block of ice and no matter how small he curls up his toes still ache with cold. It’s not so much that he can’t stop thinking that won’t let him sleep – more that he can’t _start_.

Eventually he gives up and drags the blankets downstairs, collapsing into an armchair and wrapping them tightly around him. Carolyn has fallen asleep in the opposite one already, and has not even changed, though she has a quilt of her own draped across her. Herc has appropriated a couple of sheets from somewhere for warmth. He _has_ changed, but apparently had the same trouble as Douglas and opted for the same solution. He’s sleeping sitting on the floor with his back leaning on Carolyn’s chair. Douglas finally closes his eyes to the sound of Arthur’s snoring sometime a little before dawn.

00000

‘Did you see that?’ asks Arthur five minutes after their arrival by Martin’s ICU bedside; the ventilator has at least been removed. ‘His hand moved; I _definitely_ saw his hand move!’

All eyes snap simultaneously to Martin’s left hand, where Arthur is pointing, but it is still again if it ever moved at all.

00000

‘Mum?’ Arthur begins tentatively a short while later. ‘How long will it be until Skip wakes up?’

‘Not long,’ Carolyn assures him. ‘Not long now…’

No one suggests leaving or doing anything else but wait until that time comes.

00000

‘Does anyone want coffee?’ Douglas is the one to break the silence again, filled with a sudden urge to just _move_ and not sit doing nothing and being useless.

‘Please,’ says Herc; Carolyn nods absently.

‘Arthur?’ Douglas prompts, standing up with a wince and stretching his stiff legs. Arthur opens his mouth to reply, then freezes, staring at Martin.

‘He’s doing it again!’ he exclaims, ‘look – look!’

He’s pointing at Martin’s hand, but Douglas looks towards Martin’s face and sees, with a rush of an emotion he can’t even name, that the Captain’s eyelids are flickering. Carolyn sees too and jumps up, pushing the button that calls a nurse to their side in moments. She bustles and checks and writes something on a clipboard, then smiles indulgently at the motley group watching her with baited breath.

‘He’s a lucky man,’ she says. Douglas doesn’t correct her.

 _He’s waking up_.

00000

Another hour or so passes before much else happens. Douglas isn’t sure of the exact moment he realises. One instant everything is still in that awful suspended waiting period, the next there is a sliver of grey-blue where Martin’s eyelids have parted just the tiniest amount. Without thinking, he grabs Martin’s hand, which undeniably _moves_.

‘Come on…’ he whispers. Carolyn notices and sits straighter in her chair; Arthur’s eyes widen; Herc steps forwards from his customary position several paces away. ‘Come on, Martin…’

Slowly, very very slowly, Martin’s eyes slide open and he blinks once. Twice. Arthur is already beaming; Carolyn’s face is set with a stiffness clearer than any expression; Douglas’s heart hammers desperately in his chest.

‘Martin?’ he asks, quietly. There’s a long pause before Martin manages to speak, his eyes half closed and clouded with confusion.

‘Doug – Douglas?’ He coughs and blinks some more in an attempt to clear his misted vision. Martin’s voice is sleep-worn and hoarse but no more strained than simple tiredness might make it. Douglas’s eyes are oddly wet again.

‘ _Skipper_!’ Arthur exclaims, leaping forwards and wrapping his arms around Martin awkwardly, ‘you’re awake, you’re awake!’

‘I…what?’ Martin blinks again several times and tries to shift his arms; Douglas quickly removes his hand while Carolyn, no longer even trying to hide her smile, tugs Arthur away. ‘What’s…what…where am I?’

Douglas _grins_. Relieved isn’t a word to describe the feeling that the air around MJN is thick with, happiness doesn’t cover it. Something physical seems to float in the atmosphere threatening to explode at any moment. Something quivering and alive and desperate to move, to shout, to _scream_ their joy to the high heavens, but somehow they all remain quiet – even Arthur.

‘In the hospital,’ answers Carolyn. Her voice shakes slightly, but only Herc appears to notice.

‘Why…why am I in the hospital?’ Martin struggles to push himself up but Douglas lays a restraining hand on his shoulder before he can hurt himself.

‘There was an accident,’ explains Herc when no one else seems able to speak. ‘Douglas…’ he glances at his old co-worker as though for permission.

‘You were hit by a van,’ Douglas tells him, much more bluntly than he intends to.

‘No…I wasn’t,’ Martin frowns, looking confused, then winces and flattens his features out. Arthur is literally trembling with the effort to stay still and Carolyn is sure if her son’s smile gets any wider his face will actually break in half. She doesn’t realise how closely her expression now mirrors his.

‘I assure you, you were; I saw it.’ Douglas’s voice is flat, his features expressionless as he speaks, but Carolyn hears the tension behind the words.

‘No I wasn’t,’ Martin protests, eyes slipping closed again with exhaustion. ‘I’m…alive,’ he mumbles.

‘Yes,’ replies Douglas, ‘you are.’

‘Of course you are Skip!’ Arthur bursts out, as though any alternative was never even possible.

‘But…but…’ Martin seems to be struggling to form the thought properly, or perhaps just the words; perhaps a combination of the two, ‘I’m not that lucky,’ he says eventually, barely audible. ‘I can’t have…I’m not lucky.’

‘No,’ Douglas agrees, ‘you’re not. But the entire universe, thankfully, does not run on your own personal perpetual misfortune.’

‘…What?’

‘ _I_ was there, Martin,’ Douglas continues in a gentler tone as Carolyn throws him a warning glance. ‘I think my good luck may have overridden your bad.’

‘What?’ Martin asks again, struggling to process this information, ‘your good…what does that have…to do with…?’

Douglas sighs exasperatedly and continues in a tone much closer to his normal self, ‘it may not have occurred to Sir that Sir’s untimely death might affect others as much as or more than himself, but I can assure Sir that this is the case. As such one of said others might in a time of great need generously dole out their rather copious supply of good fortune in order to avoid said untimely death.’

‘ _What_?’ Martin repeats, now frowning, completely nonplussed and too exhausted to puzzle through Douglas’s explanation. Carolyn rolls her eyes despite the smile still playing on her face,

‘He means he saved your life,’ she informs him brusquely. Martin looks, if possible, even more tired and confused. There’s a dark bruise livid against his forehead, thrown into sharp relief by the complete whiteness of the rest of his weary face.

‘You…?’

‘Saved your life Skip, yeah! He was brilliant! Well, I wasn’t there, but I’m sure he was brilliant.’

‘Far be it from me to disagree with the wisdom of the Great Arthur Shappey,’ Douglas responds. He sounds far from _modest_ , but he doesn’t look anywhere near as smug as he normally would. ‘Don’t expect me to do it again though,’ he warns, choosing to ignore the odd look Herc is giving him, too tired to be bothered by its meaning. ‘You’d better not have any other near death experiences for the foreseeable future; I can’t be following your every move to make sure you don’t get yourself killed,’ _although God knows after this a part of him wants to_ , ‘understood?’

Martin nods weakly, apparently unable to do anything else. His head is spinning; his thoughts are bleary and disordered. Herc smiles silently and slips away to find a doctor.

Martin can’t remember what happened, nothing past…well he went out, he knows that much. He remembers dropping the key as he fumbled to lock the door and having to plunge his hand into the freezing snow to find it… _that_ is clear as day. Although come to think of it – _was_ it today? Maybe that was last week. Or perhaps before. Maybe yesterday. When was yesterday? How long has he been here? How did he manage to get hit; how did he manage to survive? How badly is he injured?

Dozens, hundreds of questions crowd at the tip of his tongue, but he can’t find the energy or the words to voice them. Something aches to see Douglas, Carolyn and Arthur all gathered around his bed, something between guilt and a kind of warmth…to see them here, to have them…to know that they’ve stayed…

By the time Herc has returned with a doctor (to Martin it seems like hours, but it is less than two minutes), Martin has almost slipped back to sleep. He doesn’t think he has ever, _ever_ been this tired…and Arthur is grinning weakly at him. Carolyn is talking, brisk but soft at the same time…someone might be holding his hand, he can feel their thumb tracing circles across his knuckles, but who or why he doesn’t know. It’s soothing though, so soothing…

He is jerked back to alertness by a light in his eyes and sharp questions; eager, searching looks and medical jargon he can’t understand. He watches hazily as Carolyn argues with the doctor over something…something about visiting hours, or him needing rest…He wants to say that of course, of _course_ they are welcome to stay, he wants them here. He doesn’t want to be alone. He doesn’t want…he’s warm, and they’re here. It might be the blankets but it also might be them that are _making_ him warm. He has a vague memory of cold; being so, so cold…he doesn’t want to be cold…

He falls to sleep before they have reached an agreement, to the sound of a murmured conversation between Douglas and Arthur. Someone is still holding his hand and as he drifts into unconsciousness, he curls his fingers around theirs as best he can to ground himself.

00000

‘So are you going to tell him?’ Herc asks Douglas abruptly, handing him a soapy plate from the sink which the latter proceeds to dry.

‘Tell who, what?’ Douglas replies, ignoring the sharp pang of something frighteningly close to panic in his chest. Herc _can’t_ have…

‘Don’t act the fool with me, Douglas,’ Herc warns, somewhere between firm and amused. He checks over his shoulder for Arthur or Carolyn, who are both in the next room. The roads have continued to be impassable, so Douglas and Herc are again staying at Carolyn’s. She is currently supervising (and helping, not that she would allow them to know that) Arthur’s construction of a frankly enormous _Get Well Soon_ card for Martin. It has fallen to Douglas and Herc to do the washing up.

‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Douglas says, feigning nonchalance. _Although really_ , he scolds himself, _there’s nothing to feign._ There’s nothing Herc could possible _know_ , so why is he so worried?

‘I’ve known you for years,’ Herc tells him for explanation, ‘I attended two of your weddings, remember? I’ve seen that look on your face before.’

‘What _look_?’ Douglas demands, throwing down the tea-towel and folding his arms, facing Herc in a deliberately challenging posture. Herc sees no challenge; only defensiveness, and his eyebrows rise apparently of their own accord.

‘The sad thing is, I don’t think he sees it,’ the other pilot continues as though he hasn’t heard. ‘I’ve never known you to be so coy, Douglas. Why the hesitation?’

‘ _What_ ,’ Douglas enunciates very carefully, his eyes flashing dangerously even as he closes down his expression of any emotion except contempt, ‘are you _talking_ about?’

‘Oh for goodness sake Douglas; Martin!’

‘What about Martin?’

‘Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t become you,’ Herc commands sharply, suddenly irritated. ‘You’re absolutely smitten aren’t you? I suspected it before, but I’m not in any doubt now. Why won’t you tell him?’

‘ _Me_?’ splutters Douglas, all too aware that his voice has gone an octave higher than normal and working to lower it, ‘smitten with _Martin_? Are you serious? Apart from anything else, he’s young enough to be my son.’

‘And if that is your only argument against it, then you’ve just proved my point. There are at least a dozen other reasons to protest your feelings, or lack of them, all far more solid and easily defended than that.’

‘I –’ Douglas reaches for a lie, and finds none available. This more than anything sends him spiralling into a panic that makes his face flush with colour and all words fail him. There is no lie. He has nothing to grasp at, nothing to worm his way out – how did that happen? And now Herc will take this as some sort of proof, when of course it means nothing. Of _course_ he doesn’t – not _Martin_ , the idea is ludicrous.

So why is he automatically trying to fabricate a story, an excuse, to get out from under Herc’s searching and all too perceptive gaze? Why doesn’t he just tell the _truth_? The truth is he feels nothing – oh he’ll admit to caring for Martin, he could hardly deny that, least of all after the last two days, but not…not like _that_ …God no.

Herc smiles in a self-satisfied way that makes Douglas want to punch him.

‘If it helps at all,’ he continues calmly, apparently deciding he’s won the brief argument and turning back to the sink as though the matter is of no consequence, ‘he looks at you the same way.’

00000

Douglas has another restless night as he tosses and turns irritably, alternately struggling to force Herc’s words from his mind and playing them over and over again as though searching for a loophole.

When he does sleep, his dreams are a messy jumble of faces and voices he can only half recall by morning. He has the distinct impression of someone watching him scornfully and a vague recollection of wandering around the airfield with no shoes on, but everything else disappears in a hazy mist by the time he opens his eyes.

What disturbs him most of all is that one phrase in particular sticks out above the others. One phrase vies – successfully – for his attention at the expense of everything else.

 _He looks at you the same way_.

It shouldn’t mean anything to him. It _doesn’t_ , or so he keeps telling himself. Besides, he doubts Martin is capable of looking at him the same way he looks at Martin. Martin is surely too blustering and naïve to summon up such a unique blend of scorn and pity, of derision and sympathy? Because that is the most that can be seen in Douglas’s expression when he looks at Martin.

It _is_.

 _Smitten_ …of course he isn’t smitten. With _Martin_? The very idea…

And yet, unbidden, an image of Martin laughing – a rare, unguarded, completely open laugh – bursts to the forefront of his mind. His heart flips over and some part of him hopes that yes, Martin does feel that same not-quite-unpleasant twisting in his gut when he witnesses Douglas’s smile, as when Douglas witnesses his… _longs_ for the revelation to be true…

No. No, don’t be ridiculous. That twisting isn’t fondness or nerves or lust or – or anything else. It’s…he’s tired, that’s all…he’s not thinking straight. Too much of Arthur’s cooking for dinner, that’s it, it must be.

It must be.

00000

Dawn brings with it cleared and gritted roads. The sky is pale, the sunlight watery, but it is cloudless overhead and at least the snow has stopped. They decide on taking shifts at the hospital without really discussing it much. Herc is the one who suggests Douglas take the first visit, with a hatefully triumphant gleam in his eye. Douglas, for his part, does not argue. Carolyn drops him off (at length convincing Arthur that the card really can wait until later), and promises to find out what has happened to his car as long as _he_ promises to call her if anything changes.

The walk to the ward Martin is in (he has been moved out of the ICU, thankfully) seems to take hours. Douglas’s heart is beating twice as hard as normal. He can’t decide if his light-headedness is down to its rate doubling or stopping altogether.

This is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Herc is a fool if he seriously believes what he said about Douglas having… _feelings_ for Martin. Where on Earth does he get such ideas from? Douglas feels nothing. Nothing at all…

Except an unaccountable nervousness, almost a _fear_ as he approaches Martin now, that has nothing to do with the Captain’s medical condition. What is he expecting? Does he think he is going to walk in and suddenly see some hitherto unknown truth in Martin’s eyes? Is he going to go in and instantly everything will be different, all because Herc has got some fanciful idea into his head of there being something _between_ the two pilots?

Because if he is, he is just as much of a fool as Herc; there isn’t anything, there never has been…

So why is he working so hard to convince himself of the fact?

When he does walk in and see Martin sleeping on the bed with one hand laid across his chest, palm down, and the other thrown across the sheets with the fingers curling loosely upwards, he stops dead.

_Oh, bloody Hell…_

His heart skips a beat. His breath actually hitches in his chest. His mind flashes back to that same hand cast out across the ice; that same chest unmoving; those same now pinned and plastered legs bent and broken in the road. His eyes sting momentarily; his lungs tighten.

 _Oh damn, oh Hell, oh bloody bloody_ damn.

He hates it when Herc is right.

He drifts over to the plastic chair beside Martin’s bed as though in a trance. His eyes travel slowly up to Martin’s face, and once there, they linger almost hungrily. Martin’s expression is relaxed; his lips parted slightly, eyelids fluttering occasionally in his sleep. Douglas sinks into the chair and finds his hand reaching out of its own accord towards Martin’s; he takes it gently, twining his larger fingers around Martin’s small ones.

Martin’s nails are short; all but the one on his thumb professionally neat and trim. The exception is jagged, shorter than the others, the uneven edges too far down and exposing the raw, vulnerable skin underneath. Douglas fleetingly imagines Martin biting that nail with nerves, or thought. His heart twists again and he runs the index finger of his free hand over the damage, wishing he really did know a trick for everything; wishing he could fix even just this, the least of Martin’s injuries.

He’s never actually denied considering Martin a friend. He cares about the boy (yes the boy, the _boy_ you stupid fool, he’s just a _boy_ ) of course. But the strength of his own reaction to what has happened – what so very nearly _could_ have happened – surprises him. Frightens him, even. And Martin looks so _young_ …how can Douglas possibly –?

_And if that is your only argument against it, then you’ve just proved my point._

This is – this is – he _can’t_ – not Martin, anyone but _Martin_.

 _He looks at you the same way_.

Is that _hope_ he feels when he thinks of what Herc said? And how is he to find out if it’s true?

_I’ve never known you to be so coy, Douglas. Why the hesitation?_

Because it’s a patent fabrication; because Herc is being an idiot; because there is nothing to hesitate over; _because Martin might reject him_.

No – now that’s taking it too far. Douglas Richardson does not, never has and never will, fear rejection. From anyone.

Martin stirs, his fingers reflexively tightening around Douglas’s hand so that he can’t extricate himself quite fast enough, and as the Captain’s eyes slowly open, they follow the movement as Douglas pulls away.

‘Good morning Sir,’ says Douglas in a falsely cheery voice that makes Martin wince as he squints against the bright light of the ward. Stretching his legs out before him and folding his hands behind his head ( _not_ to get them as far away from Martin’s as possible), Douglas effects a position of lazy relaxation and hitches a vaguely bored expression onto his face.

‘What day is it?’ Martin asks,

‘Tuesday,’ Douglas replies promptly, ‘the twenty-fourth of January.’ Concern flickers across his features, ‘do you know where you are?’

Martin looks around, ‘hospital,’ he says. Douglas frowns.

‘Did you remember that, or work it out?’

‘I don’t know…why am I – there was a car, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes,’ Douglas replies, deciding not to go into details if Martin is struggling to recall them. He doesn’t need to know right now.

‘Where are the others? They were…here, weren’t they? I remember…them being here…’ he speaks slowly, his voice still thick with tiredness, his eyes travelling slowly around the room but never resting anywhere for long. _Look at me_ , Douglas finds himself thinking, _look at me, come on…let me see it, let me see if he’s right_ …

‘They were, when you woke up yesterday. We’re taking it in shifts.’

‘Oh…’ Martin shakes his head a little to clear it, then starts trying to push himself clumsily into a sitting position; Douglas moves forward to help, but Martin stops dead before he can do anything, eyes fixed on his own legs. ‘Oh…’ he says again. His eyes widen with shock and he stares, his mouth slightly open, as though waiting to be told it isn’t true. Douglas doesn’t know which fact he finds more strange; that Martin didn’t know before now (he thinks with relief that the painkillers must be doing their job, at least), or that he is now staring at his broken legs as though they are not a part of him at all. ‘I –’ his voice quivers and his eyes fill with unshed tears; Douglas actually has to resist the urge to wipe them away. ‘I’m –’

‘It’ll be fine,’ Douglas assures him quietly, ‘it’s not as bad as it could be – with time and rehabilitation they say you’ll make a full recovery –’

‘How much time?’ Martin asks in a choked voice, horror gradually overtaking his weary features, ‘how bad – how long am I going to – how am I –?’

‘You don’t need to worry about it,’ Douglas soothes, ‘honestly, you’ve been very lucky for a change, really it –’

‘How long, Douglas?’

‘You’ll have to be in a wheelchair for a while,’ Douglas cringes as Martin makes a small, scared noise in the back of his throat. ‘Then crutches, and probably at least one more operation. Physiotherapy –’

‘How long before I can walk?’ Martin persists. Douglas hears the unasked question: _will I ever be able to walk again_?

‘There’s no significant spinal damage,’ he sees Martin’s shoulders literally sag with relief, ‘so it’s just a matter of waiting for the bones to heal, and then for you to regain the strength in them. You should be back to relative normality within a year.’

‘A _year_?’ Martin chokes desperately, ‘I can’t – what am I supposed to _do_? Bones don’t – it won’t take that long to heal –’

‘They were complex breaks. The main problem is your hip, but you won’t be immobile for that long, don’t worry. You’ll be on crutches within a few months; it’s the physio that will take the time.’

‘But – but I can’t fly if I’m – what about MJN?’

‘We’ll manage,’ says Douglas firmly. ‘We’ll take as many single-pilot flights as possible. Herc can freelance for us if it’s necessary. We’ll work something out.’

‘We’re already so far into debt –’

‘Martin, stop it. You can’t do anything about it. Let me and Carolyn work it out, okay? Have I ever failed to deliver before?’

Martin opens and closes his mouth several times before giving up. His eyes are still very watery, but he’s holding back as best he can. A whole year…at least…wheelchairs and crutches and physio and no flights – how can he have been so stupid, how can he have let MJN down so badly? His legs, his legs are – God, the prospect of the next twelve months stretched out endlessly before him is impossible, it’s…it can’t be real, it’s not…

A new horror claims his features as a second realisation hits him, this one with a painful force almost as physically jarring as the van itself.

‘Oh God, Douglas, I won’t be able to work! I _drive_ for a living, what am I supposed to do for money? I can hardly get sick pay and I barely scrape by as it is; how am I meant to live for a year without a job? I could barely last a few _weeks_ , let alone – Douglas, I can’t – how – I live in an _attic_ , I can’t climb a flight of stairs and a ladder with – well I suppose I could sleep on the sofa, but what about the rent? What about – Douglas –’

‘I told you, we’ll work something out,’ Douglas interrupts in a tone that leaves no room for argument. He resists the temptation to close his eyes against the terrified look on Martin’s face, wishing he could be deaf to the imploring way the Captain keeps saying his name, as though he will be able to solve everything just by clicking his fingers. ‘Of course you can’t sleep on the sofa. Apart from anything else, you live in a house full of _students_ ; you’d never get a moment’s peace. You can move in with me.’

Part of Douglas hopes Martin will scoff at this idea. Not because he doesn’t want Martin moving in with him; he has already thought this through and discussed their options with Carolyn, plans have been made. It’s because if Martin scoffs at him, things are normal. If things are normal, he can go back to mocking and winning word games and thinking up clever ways to talk Martin around to his way of thinking, none of which is fun with Martin so plainly, genuinely afraid. If things are normal, he doesn’t have to concentrate so hard on not taking Martin’s hand again, or making sure he doesn’t let his gaze drop to Martin’s lips too often. He doesn’t have to keep thinking in medical terms and recovery times, thinking of what could have been, if he hadn’t been there when it happened.

‘I can’t…I can’t do that. I don’t expect you to –’

‘It’s been arranged,’ Douglas informs him shortly. ‘If you have another sensible suggestion then by all means, feel free to make it, but do it quickly. Carolyn is already moving your things into my house.’

‘I – she’s _what_?’ Martin splutters,

‘If you have any valid protests, again, you’re welcome to make them,’ Douglas replies with the dogged determination of the experienced arguer, ‘but otherwise I suggest you do as the grown-ups are telling you.’ _Yes, grown-ups._ A snide voice in the back of Douglas’s mind tells him, _he is much,_ much _too young for you_. ‘There’s no way you can get up to that attic in this condition so it seemed foolish to bother waiting for you to be discharged. Carolyn will move your things into my house, and once you leave here you’ll move in with me.’

‘I can’t expect you to…’ Martin protests weakly,

‘You’re not expecting anything; it was arranged entirely without your knowledge or permission. I barely take your orders on the flight deck Martin, what makes you think I’m going to start taking them now?’

‘But I can’t – I can’t sponge off you for – I can’t pay rent or buy food or anything, I can’t _drive_ and –’

‘Nonsense. You will pay me with a van.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Your van, to be precise. You arrange jobs as usual around MJN’s flights; Arthur and I will drive the van for Icarus Removals.’

‘But – that’s not paying, that’s extra work –’

‘Oh, stop complaining; it’s beginning to wear. Everything has been organised. Stop worrying. Now, I bet you the chocolate pudding…’

00000

Douglas deliberately keeps Martin talking the whole time he’s at the hospital, so as not to allow the Captain to think too much about his situation. He wins the games easily, of course, but he does make sure it’s by a slightly smaller margin than usual, out of courtesy. And also out of the fact that he can’t concentrate, because he is far, _far_ more aware of Martin’s presence than strictly appropriate. Martin waves his hand when he’s searching for a word; it passes inches from Douglas’s chest. Martin blinks a lot every time he looks down at his own legs, and he has surprisingly long eyelashes. Martin’s smile is slightly wan, but still crinkles his face up in a way Douglas has to try very hard not to think of as _adorable_. Because that is not a word he associates with Martin Crieff. Not at all. Not ever. Not…

When Arthur takes over he dominates most of the conversation, but Martin is content to listen by now, too tired to contribute much anyway. Martin keeps looking over at the card Arthur brought; clumsily handmade and decorated with what looks like a child’s drawing of an aeroplane, marked with _MJN_ in large letters on the tailfin. Martin assumes the red-headed (literally) stick figure poking a waving arm out of a grossly inaccurate cockpit’s window, is supposed to be him. Every time he glances towards this picture, emblazoned above and below with “ _Get Well Soon Skipper!”_ in bright orange, his throat tightens and he has to swallow forcefully before he can speak again.

Carolyn is crisp and to the point; she neither avoids the subject of MJN’s imminent staffing difficulties, nor concentrates particularly hard on them. When Martin brings it up she dismisses the issue with a little flick of her hand and warns him not to think that being unable to fly is in any way going to mean he’s getting a holiday out of this. His brain is still functioning, isn’t it? As well as it ever has, at any rate; right, well then he can help her with the books, can’t he? And since he’s living with Douglas, can he _please_ make sure the man at least attempts to show up on time? On that note, since he’ll be abandoning GERTI to Douglas’s command for at least the vast majority of the time, he’d better have a word with the First Officer about completing his own paperwork. In the meantime, for goodness sake concentrate on getting better; she’s not sure which of them – she or GERTI – will snap first if Douglas is left to his own devices for too long.

Martin is touched, but doesn’t say anything.

Herc (Martin is somewhat surprised at his visit and can’t help but let his confusion show on his face, though Herc seems not to notice) doesn’t mention greetings cards, broken legs, paperwork or punctuality. He comes in, sits down, and tells Martin that the first time he ever remembers being hospitalised was when he was seven years old and cracked a rib falling out of a tree. His brother was the one who dared him to climb the tree in the first place, apparently, and for three weeks afterwards Herc was able to get Wellington to do almost anything he wanted. After that it’s the time on his fifth flight when they came so close to crashing that he actually kissed the Captain (whom he later married and divorced in quick succession) when they finally landed. Next he listens to Martin regale a dozen different stories of MJN’s various antics, some of which he has heard before – though admittedly Carolyn usually tells them with a rather different take on events.

By the time Herc leaves, visiting hours are over and Martin is feeling pleasantly drowsy; he has no trouble at all in following the nurse’s advice to get some sleep. It seems that almost as soon as he allows his eyes to drift closed, he is dreaming.

00000

He is in a tree. He must have climbed it, he supposes, but he can’t remember doing so. He likes how high it is, likes the view from up here. He can see all the way into Dennis Waldon’s garden, three houses down, where Simon is lounging on the swing holding hands with Dennis’s big sister. He can see through Caitlin’s bedroom window; she’s laid on her front across the bed reading a magazine with her feet in the air. There’s an aeroplane flying overhead, leaving a thin white trail across the sky behind it, and Martin watches with fascination. He cranes his head back and squints against the glare of the sun until the tiny winged speck has disappeared from view behind a cloud.

‘Martin!’ someone calls from below; blinking, eyes watering from the brightness, Martin looks down but can’t see anyone. It’s a woman’s voice, but it doesn’t sound like his mother. He frowns. ‘Martin, come down here!’

She sounds vaguely distant, but very close at the same time.

‘Martin!’

‘Where are you?’ Martin calls back, and the sound of his own voice surprises him because it’s a man’s voice, and he’s only twelve.

‘Down here, you dolt! What are you doing in that tree? We need you at the airfield!’

Airfield? Why would she – whoever she is – need him at the airfield? He asks as much, and hears a loud tutting in reply.

‘To fly the plane for goodness sake, why else?’ she snaps, suddenly very close indeed. When Martin peers through the thick branches beneath him now he can see a woman standing by the tree trunk with her arms folded, tapping her foot impatiently.

‘But – but I’m not – I can’t –’

‘Oh hurry up Martin! We leave in twenty minutes!’

Still confused, Martin starts to scramble down clumsily, scraping his palms against the rough bark of the tree as he goes and skinning his knee when he slips; being up here, he likes. Getting back down is another matter, especially when his body seems much too big to be his own, all ungainly limbs and feet much larger than he is used to.

‘Hurry up!’ she shouts again, and Martin tries, he _does_ , but the tree is much, much taller than it was when he climbed up, he’s sure of it. For every branch he moves down, it seems he’s three feet higher from the ground, and the faster he moves the faster it grows.

‘I can’t – it’s too big! I can’t get down!’ he loses his footing and struggles for a hold, grabbing a branch above his head to stop himself falling and hugging himself to the trunk.

‘Don’t be stupid Martin, you got up there; you can get back down.’

‘I need help! Where – where’s Simon? Can you get Simon? Or my Mum?’

‘Don’t be stupid, they’re busy. Ten minutes, Martin!’

‘But you said twenty, I only just – wait, no, don’t go – _wait_!’ The woman has turned and started to walk away, shaking her head and muttering to herself. Martin tries to move faster, not looking where he’s putting his feet, feeling desperately for lumps in the trunk or branches strong enough to hold his weight, scrabbling about with his toes to find a foothold. He’s halfway down – then twice as far up again; almost at the bottom, then higher than ever. He tries to jump a few branches – there’s that big one beneath him, if he can just land on that –

He cracks his hip against it as he falls, scraping painfully up his side and bashing his head, smacking his elbow on the way down, with a horrible lurching sensation as he tumbles past his target, arms flailing desperately, shouting something, trying to grab –

He hits the ground with a thud, a crack and a scream; he’s on _fire_ ; he’s still falling; he’s trapped; he’s spinning; he’s paralysed; he’s floating; he’s flying; he’s falling; he’s trapped; he’s falling; he’s _burning_. The pain and the pain the pain the _pain_ , his legs – his legs – he can’t think, he can’t see, he’s going to be sick –

And he does, and it doesn’t help, and he’s still burning and shaking and spinning and falling.

‘Oh come _along_ , Martin, what on Earth’s taking you so long?’ The woman is standing over him, clicking her tongue irritably and rolling her eyes, apparently oblivious to his plight.

‘Please – please –’ Martin manages to gasp in that strange man’s voice that can’t be his – he tries to move and screams again when agony shoots through him, but the woman has turned again and is striding away.

‘Oh never mind…’ she’s saying, her voice fading slowly away, ‘Douglas is a better pilot anyway, we’ll be fine without you…’

‘No, please – _please_ , come back, come back!’ He tries to pull himself along, gritting his teeth and struggling not to vomit again, cringing and sobbing and shouting for her and his _legs_. His legs are so painful he’s going to pass out, he’s going to pass out, but she ignores him; he can’t even see her anymore, but he can hear her footsteps growing fainter. ‘Please help!’ he screams, ‘I can’t – _please_ – get my Mum, or anyone, please! Don’t go – don’t – Mum! _Mum_!’

00000

Martin wakes gasping and sweating, with tear tracks seared down his cheeks and his mother’s name still on his lips. It’s a moment before he realises where he is; another before he remembers she won’t be answering his calls and rather a lot more before he’s calm enough to complete a coherent thought. He looks down at his legs, unable to turn his gaze away, and feels fresh tears rising and spilling over in horror and fear.

He gulps air in as though he’s suffocating, squeezing his eyes shut against the sight and pressing his palms to his forehead like he’s trying to rub the image away. He struggles desperately to regain control, tries to slow his breathing and calm his pounding heart, but it’s all he can do not to scream and for several long minutes he can’t even think. He can barely function beyond an irrational need for more oxygen, more space, more _anything_ – an escape or to wake up, _really_ wake up this time, because this has to be some sort of nightmare. What is he going to _do_? How is going to manage with…like this? How long will it be before Carolyn is forced to find another pilot? Before Douglas grows tired of sharing his house, of – God forbid – _looking after_ him? Before even Arthur…

And then at the thought of Arthur, a sharp breath catches in Martin’s throat and he looks up. He can’t say why he does it; he doesn’t remember the card until he sees it, propped up beside his bed, looming in all its childishly coloured glory out of the pre-dawn light. Still breathing shakily, still trembling with panic and despair, Martin reaches out to pick it up automatically.

His breaths become deeper and slower as he stares, brushing a finger over the lettering of _Skipper_ on the front. He doesn’t think now. He daren’t. He just hovers on the edge of awareness; allowing himself to feel, but not to consider; to observe, but not to process.

Arthur made this; he spent time on it; a lot of time. For a moment the image of his face when he presented it to Martin swims in Martin’s mind. He really tried. He really cared.

An age seems to pass before Martin is breathing almost normally, if a little unsteadily, and he gathers the courage to cautiously flip open the card. It’s heavy, somehow, like it’s resisting his inspection. Like he shouldn’t be doing this, like he’s _afraid_ to do it, though he can’t think why he should be.

He stares at the signatures. The jump out of the page at him and seem to float in the air; their owners’ voices swim vaguely around him. Still, Martin treads carefully around the idea of actually _thinking_ too much. He just looks.

Carolyn’s signature is smart, professional; neat and tightly controlled. Arthur’s own is scrawling and exuberant; Herc’s, small and elegant looking. Douglas’s is looping and elaborate. He notices the tiny bulb of ink at the top of Herc’s _H_ ; hesitation, perhaps? Though it ends smoothly enough. He sees that Carolyn’s is lowest down and firmly underlined; the last word on everything, of course. Arthur’s is highest; always the first and most enthusiastic. He seems to have tried to turn the _t_ into an aeroplane as well, but not had much luck. Douglas has signed closest to Arthur, but Martin doesn’t know if this means he added his name before or after the other two. He doesn’t know why it seems to matter.

By the time he realises that he is actually smiling, and that his cheeks are dry now, his eyes are slipping closed again. He supposes that he ought to put the card back, but finds he doesn’t want to let go. He drifts back to a blissfully dreamless sleep still clutching it loosely by his side.

When Douglas arrives in the morning, he replaces the card on the small bedside table without waking Martin, but with the tiniest of frowns at the still visible tear tracks on the younger man’s face.

00000

Over the next few days, Martin is scarcely given chance to think, let alone dwell on things. Save at night, when it is unavoidable, it seems there is some sort of agreement that he should not be left alone for more than a few minutes at a time. He supposes he should find the constant company suffocating. Instead all he feels is gratitude so strong he doesn’t think he’d have the words to express it even if he had the courage to try.

The strange thing is, not one of them has really changed towards him in the slightest, after the initial awkward uncertainty when he woke up to find them gathered solicitously around his bed. It’s when Carolyn calls him a dim-witted fool that he feels a surge of affection strong enough to make his throat hurt. It’s when Douglas lazily “wins” his pudding for the third day in a row that he is rendered momentarily speechless. He has to take advantage of Douglas’s sudden interest in the ward television to quickly blink away the moisture building in his eyes.

He forgets to count the days, and has lost all track of the date, but it must be at least a fortnight or more later before the subject of being discharged is raised again, and all five of them are forced to reluctantly consider practicalities once more.

‘Now it hasn’t snowed in a few days, but nothing has melted either, so it’s like an ice rink out there. I’m afraid you’ll probably have to be pushed around in the ’chair for a while at least, we can hardly risk you going off into the road again because you aren’t used to manoeuvring the thing…’ Douglas is saying matter-of-factly, while Martin listens with mounting dread. ‘Once you’ve got the hang of it you should be able to be fairly independent, and in a few months you’ll be onto crutches anyway…’

Which, truth be told, is the _last_ thing Douglas wants at the moment; an independent, accident prone, _vulnerable_ Martin.

Every night while Douglas is away from the hospital, his brain refuses to settle to any other task than thinking up every possible variation on the thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t been there. If he just hadn’t been able to do anything; if something were to happen _now_ – some sort of complication – he’s heard of clots and internal haemorrhages and all sorts after this kind of thing – and part of the worry comes from his own loss of control. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt panic like that before. He wouldn’t have thought himself _capable_ ; quite frankly, it’s intensity and suddenness is terrifying.

Martin doesn’t seem to have noticed Douglas’s distraction; or if he has, he is keeping quiet about it. Douglas wants to be grateful for this, but he knows it just means the Captain is preoccupied by other, frankly more important, things. Things which Douglas wishes he could steal away as easily as swiping an expensive bottle of whiskey. Things which, no matter what any of them do, are absolutely going to change their lives for many months to come, at the very least.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Martin says in a small voice, misinterpreting the look of irritation of Douglas’s face. Sometimes he is so grateful to Douglas – to all of them – that he wants to cry with the sheer intensity of it. Sometimes he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand feeling as useless as he knows he will, if he lets them go ahead with this. And all the time, he knows he really doesn’t have a choice.

‘Nonsense,’ Douglas insists automatically, then quickly changes tack with a flicker of his old smile. ‘Think of the favours you’ll owe me after this.’

Douglas hopes, he _prays_ Martin will take it as the joke he intends it to be, but for one agonising moment he seems not to. Then he smiles, albeit extremely nervously.

‘I don’t want to know, do I?’ He tries to sound confident…brave. It doesn’t quite work the way he wants it to, but the obvious effort makes up for the shaky tone.

‘Probably not, no,’ Douglas confirms, hating and loving the ideas that flash across his mind. Then, checking his watch, ‘well, Carolyn will be here in a few minutes to pick us up. Any last words?’

Martin somehow manages to smile and look terrified at the same time. Douglas somehow manages to return the gesture while giving himself a mental slap to stop paying so much attention to the Captain’s lips.

00000

‘I can do it, Douglas!’ Martin insists furiously, struggling to unfold the wheelchair without toppling from the car and failing miserably at hiding his winces of pain as he twists to try and reach it better. At least, he thinks bitterly, neither Herc nor Arthur is here to witness this. He wants as small an audience to it as possible.

‘Martin, just let me –’

‘ _No_!’ Martin snaps, and Douglas steps back with his heads held up in surrender.

‘Sorry. I was only trying to help,’

‘Well don’t.’

Douglas takes a deep breath and glances at Carolyn, who is gritting her teeth in annoyance. He knows she wants to step in as much as he does, though she has been uncharacteristically quiet about it.

‘Let him try,’ she mutters, not unkindly. Martin hears, and glares at her.

‘I’m not deaf, and you don’t need to patronise me,’ he says shortly, pausing to catch his breath on the pretext of shifting position. He can’t reach very well to set the chair in a suitable position to climb out into; he can’t lean too far, lest he fall out, and the ground is still too slippery to trust completely. But he cannot, he will not, ask for help.

‘Why-ever not?’ Carolyn asks haughtily, ‘I usually do.’

‘Look, Martin, don’t be ridiculous –’ Douglas steps forward and holds out his hand, about to help guide Martin out, but Martin bats him away furiously.

‘Just leave me _alone_ , Douglas!’ he hisses, his eyes suddenly very bright. ‘I’m _fine_ , you don’t need to – look, just – I’m – I can do this myself.’

‘I know you can,’ says Douglas soothingly, not slowing down. Martin goes stiff at his touch, but then reluctantly allows himself to be helped out of the car and into the waiting chair. ‘But that doesn’t mean you _have_ to.’

Martin’s eyes sting. They are doing that a lot lately, and he hates himself for it. He manages to unstick his throat enough to mutter something that sounds like ‘thanks’, but whether or not Douglas hears he doesn’t know.

Carolyn bustles and tuts and rolls her eyes. She hovers in front of him for a moment, moves her arm as if to pat him on the shoulder or – God forbid – hug him, but then twitches it back and nods sharply. Martin speaks words he doesn’t hear, and then she is gone. He feels like he is watching a war film with the volume turned down; the colours are muted and he can’t hear what’s going on, but he can see the chaos and destruction raining down around him. He can see his life tumbling, unstoppably, into other people’s hands.

‘Ready to go in?’ Douglas prompts gently. Martin hates that, too. He hates a lot at the moment. Douglas shouldn’t be being _gentle_ , damn him, he should be being _Douglas_. Martin doesn’t need gentle, he doesn’t want it, he hasn’t asked for it. He doesn’t reply, but pivots on the spot and pushes himself with unnecessary force up Douglas’s drive.

He hesitates momentarily halfway to the door. Not long enough, he hopes, for Douglas to notice, but long enough to allow him time to swallow the returning lump in his throat.

Where there would normally be a step at the door, which would be difficult to get over in this chair, there is a slope of thick, neat, specially cut wood. It isn’t a permanent fixture, but it isn’t slap-dash either; just enough solidarity to show that Douglas has really planned this, really thought about it, but not immovable. Not enough to suggest that Martin will never be able to cross that threshold without wheels.

It’s a little steep, when he reaches it; unused to manoeuvring in the chair, he doesn’t quite anticipate the force needed to make it to the top and has to try a second time when the wheels jam. Then he manages it perfectly, and feels a tiny swell of pride.

‘Straight ahead,’ is all Douglas says, following him in. ‘Then the door on your right.’

Martin nods tersely and concentrates on moving down the short corridor without scraping the walls. It’s not a tight fit, exactly, but it takes more effort than he would like. The room at the end of the short corridor is the kitchen; Martin glances around almost guiltily. He has never been in Douglas’s house before, and this is not even the same one he glimpsed when Helena was still in the picture. The kitchen seems large to Martin, but is probably not much more than average; far cleaner than he is used to the students leaving theirs, it practically _glitters_. It looks like something out of a catalogue; one of those false images from home decorating adverts, all dark worktops and smooth, effortless shapes. It is very Douglas.

Directly in front of him is a little granite worktop island; looped around the walls in a U-shape are the other gleaming surfaces, spreading across most of the room’s border except the wall with the door he has entered through, and a space just large enough for another entrance to his right. Glancing at Douglas for confirmation, he reaches for the handle. To his relief, the door swings away from him, making it easier to get through, although that might be a problem once he has to come out again. The floor in this other room is several inches lower than the one in the kitchen, but this time the slope is part of the house already; it is covered seamlessly by the same carpet as the rest of the room.

Edging through the door (the width is not a problem, the sharp corner is not easy), Martin again peeks behind to make sure Douglas is following. He suddenly feels as though he is intruding, violating Douglas’s privacy by being here, but Douglas just nods him on.

‘It’s usually my daughter’s room, when she comes to stay,’ Douglas explains, indicating the dark purple carpet and pink walls. Martin looks startled.

‘Oh God, I never thought! Oh – Douglas – I’m so sorry, what if she comes to stay while I’m here? Where will she –?’

‘There’s another room upstairs. Well, a study. Not that I use it much. She can sleep in there, or in my room; I’ll take the sofa. If her mother lets her,’

‘Oh, Douglas…’

‘Don’t,’ Douglas says severely. There’s a moment of heavy silence before he claps his hands briskly and seems to brighten up. ‘Right. All Hannah’s things are upstairs, all yours have already been moved in here, so make yourself at home. Bathroom over there –’ he points to a door in the far wall, ‘it’s actually bigger than the one upstairs so you should be fine.’ He eyes Martin’s chair as though making a mental calculation, then nods. ‘The kitchen you’ve seen; living room is the one on the left as we came in. Coffee?’

‘I – err – yes. Okay. Thank you,’ Martin says awkwardly, his voice coming out in a pale imitation of the sort of forced politeness reserved for distant relatives you barely know, but who gush as though they are your best friend. He instantly feels bad for it, but Douglas has already backed out the room, leaving him to get comfortable.

Comfortable is the very last thing he feels right now though. Already the wheelchair feels restrictive and cumbersome, and his back aches from the position he’s forced to sit in. His arms feel inexplicably heavy, and looking back through the open door he sees thin tracks on the otherwise spotless kitchen tiles, left by his wheels. Guilt washes over him again, and irritation. Why hadn’t Douglas provided a mat or something for him to ride over before he came in?

Then guilt again; after everything else Douglas has done, how can he expect anything more? It’s Douglas’s floor, anyway; if he doesn’t want to protect it that’s his problem.

And this makes him feel even worse because he shouldn’t be here, making a mess of Douglas’s floor, disrupting his home and interrupting potential visits from the daughter he doesn’t see nearly enough.

But if he, Martin, doesn’t want to be here, does that make him ungrateful? If right now he would give anything – _anything_ – to be back in his own room, in his own bed, does that mean he doesn’t appreciate what Douglas is doing for him? Does it make him selfish if all he cares about at this very moment is that his leg itches and he can’t scratch it because the plaster is in the way, rather than the very real possibility of MJN going _bankrupt_ , really this time, because they haven’t got enough pilots? Does it make him a terrible person to hope and pray that Carolyn does not replace him? He doesn’t know what he would do if he couldn’t fly again. He doesn’t know if he could summon up the effort he knows recovery is going to take unless he had a guaranteed job as a pilot at the end of it. It’s all he _is_ , all he has ever wanted to be; he couldn’t bear to lose it now. But what if the option was him losing his job at MJN, or MJN going out of business altogether? He would lose it then anyway, but at least…

What _at least_? How can he think like this? If it comes to it of _course_ Carolyn must find someone else; they can’t all lose their jobs because of him. He isn’t worth that.

‘Martin.’

He jerks around, curses in pain at the sudden movement, and sees Douglas behind him holding out a mug. He pivots the chair and takes the drink, sipping to avoid looking up even though it burns his tongue. One leg throbs. The other one itches.

‘Are you –’ Douglas stops. Rethinks; maybe this isn’t what Martin needs right now. Screwing up his courage – actually having to will himself to do it for the first time in living memory – he raises an eyebrow sardonically. ‘Did you know your face gets awfully blotchy when you cry?’ _You fool! You stupid, stupid fool! What a ridiculous thing to say! What a cruel, heartless, stupid_ –

‘It does not!’ Martin exclaims indignantly. Douglas sags with relief; he hasn’t heard Martin being indignant in…far too long. Irritated, angry, upset and frustrated; yes. But this particular brand of slightly childish annoyance, he has missed. ‘And I’m not crying,’ Martin adds, almost as an afterthought.

‘Oh no; of course not,’ Douglas replies, sounding deliberately doubtful and quickly gaining confidence, ‘unthinkable.’ He allows himself to smirk, which takes more effort than it should.

‘Yes. Well.’ Martin brushes his free hand across his face. It comes away unmistakably damp. He stares at his coffee, struggling for something to say. When has talking to Douglas ever been this hard?

Douglas watches Martin and wishes that he knew which words he ought to use. It has never been difficult before. Now, it is impossible. What is he supposed to do? How is he supposed to act? As though nothing has happened?

But it _has_.

Martin clearly doesn’t want to dwell on that, though.

When did what Martin wants ever have an effect on what Douglas does?

But Douglas isn’t _cruel_. He knows where to draw the line. He might put a toe across it occasionally, but he always stops short of real malice.

Where is the line now, though? Would it be worse to behave as normal, and pretend nothing has happened, or to change and force Martin to acknowledge the situation?

After a pause that lasts a lifetime, in which each of them ignores the other and tries to pretend they are doing no such thing, Douglas opens his mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s planning on saying until, ‘TV?’ he offers. His voice is a little too loud, a little too hearty, and Martin blinks in surprise. To cover his own awkwardness, Douglas turns his back without waiting for a reply, mumbling something about there being a programme he wants to catch. There isn’t, of course, but it prevents him having to speak too much yet. He isn’t sure if this is for Martin’s benefit, or his own; he suspects the latter, but Martin seems grateful nonetheless.

Douglas settles on an old quiz show and naturally enough, before long they are competing to see who knows the most answers. Douglas is easily ahead on points, and fairly soon the awkwardness of the situation seems to dissipate and they are back to the familiar atmosphere of flight-deck banter.

After a while, though, the gaps between Martin’s answers grow steadily longer, and when they do come each is quieter than the last. By the time Douglas looks around to check on him, he is struggling to keep his eyes open. Douglas smiles, and then works to straighten his face before speaking.

‘Martin?’ he prompts. Martin jerks his head up and looks around,

‘Hmm…what?’

He’s already nodding again before Douglas has replied, ‘are you alright?’

‘’M tired,’ he mumbles. Douglas chuckles,

‘I can see that.’

Martin makes a valiant attempt to glare at Douglas, but the effect is somewhat lost by the fact that his eyes are sliding closed even as he does. He moves as though his whole body has become too heavy for him. Douglas rolls his eyes.

‘Come on then,’ he says abruptly, standing up and stretching.

‘What…are you –?’

‘Bed,’ is Douglas’s only reply, and he bends to scoop Martin into his arms. He is not heavy, and much too tired to give more than a feeble protest, but his injuries make the action difficult, though Douglas tries not to let that show.

‘I’m perfectly capable…’

‘You wouldn’t be even if you were in perfect health,’ Douglas argues reasonably, staggering a little as he straightens up but covering by taking an unsteady step towards the door.

Getting through the door is awkward, as Douglas tries to avoid knocking any part of Martin against the frame, but he takes it slowly and manages well. By the time they are on the other side, Martin is dozing with his head leaning against Douglas’s chest, breathing deeply. The next two doors, through the kitchen and into Martin’s room, are easier now that he has the technique down. He deposits Martin gently on the bed and very briefly considers trying to help him into his pyjamas. He quickly dismisses the idea; Martin will just have to sleep in his clothes for tonight. Douglas is pulling a blanket over him when Martin opens his eyes again, blinking slowly as he tries to focus on Douglas’s face.

‘You’re scaring me,’ he mumbles. Douglas can’t tell if his tone is reproving or jovial, but before he has managed to formulate a reply, Martin has fallen back to sleep. He sighs.

‘ _I’m_ scaring _you_?’ he breathes in disbelief.

00000

Martin quickly finds that there are good days, and there are bad days. Unsurprisingly, given his history, the scales seem tipped heavily in favour of the bad. Most of the time he wakes up on a morning and doesn’t want to get out of bed; it’s just so much _effort_. He is always so tired, and just moving around is so hard…and he can’t actually do anything _useful_ , so what is the point? He has spent his entire life yearning for the freedom of flight; being suddenly unable to even walk leaves him feeling so helpless he can barely function.

The medication doesn’t really eliminate the pain either. He has to be _so_ careful not to try and move in the wrong way, not to bump into anything and jar his legs – which, while he is still getting used to manoeuvring the wheelchair, is almost impossible. And Douglas is always _right there_ , so Martin has to grit his teeth and pretend it’s nothing when all he wants to do is just give up, just let go of the tears which are fighting so hard to be released, because he can’t let Douglas see. The humiliation of that would be too much.

And Douglas is being so damned _helpful_ when Martin _knows_ he doesn’t deserve it, and he doesn’t even _want_ it. All he wants to do is to be able to look after himself. He wants to be able to reach the cupboard so he can get himself a coffee without asking Douglas (after the first time, Douglas moves the jar onto the worktop to make it easier, but there is only so much that can be rearranged and holding the kettle is still difficult). He wants to be able to use the bathroom without assistance (he’s gradually getting the hang of moving around on his own, but having to leave the door unlocked _just in case_ is embarrassing enough, even if it was his own suggestion). He wants to fly GERTI again. He wants to drive his van. He wants to be woken up at three in the morning by drunken students and trip over an empty pizza box they’ve left lying on the stairs.

He wants to stop feeling so ungrateful. He wants to be glad that at least his situation is only temporary. He wants to _know_ it will only be temporary. He wants a definite answer of how long it will be before he can be independent again.

Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he wants to know why Douglas had to drag him into this nightmare; why Douglas had to do anything; why he couldn’t have just left him.

Then he wants to erase the imagined picture of the others’ faces if he ever dared voice such a thought. And he feels even guiltier, even more useless, for letting himself think it in the first place.

He barely leaves Douglas’s house at first. The isolation is his choice, but no less painful for it.

The others still come to see him, Arthur most of all. Martin doesn’t have the heart to tell them he just wants to be left alone.

Caitlin’s visit is the hardest, when she eventually makes it back into the country some two weeks later.

‘Oh _Martin_!’ she exclaims, rushing forwards and throwing her arms around him. Martin gasps and winces but doesn’t pull away, though he doesn’t return the hug either. ‘Oh, what have you done to yourself _now_?’ she gushes, as though this was all _his_ fault. Martin feels the anger rising in his chest, but does his best to push it away. He is always angry these days; he can’t blame Caitlin.

‘Hi,’ he says, a little awkwardly, forcing a smile.

‘I’m so glad you’ve got such generous colleagues; I don’t know _what_ you’d have done in that awful attic all by yourself, and I _know_ you’re just too proud to ask for help but you really must if you need anything –’

‘I’m fine, Caitlin,’ he tells her wearily.

‘Of course you are,’ she replies quickly. Martin doesn’t miss the slightly patronising note in her voice. ‘Well you know, if you _do_ need something, I’ll be around as much as I can. I’m not sure how much that will be, but I can organise some help for you, or –’

‘No!’ Martin interrupts quickly; Douglas is bad enough, but if Caitlin starts suggesting _hiring_ someone –

‘Oh no not like that, you know I wouldn’t suggest that,’ she covers, unconvincingly. ‘I just mean – you know – if you need money or anything…and I’m sure Simon…’

Martin makes a doubtful noise.

‘Don’t be like that; of course Simon would help if we asked him! You’re always so cynical about him; he really doesn’t deserve it you know.’

‘I’m not cynical,’ Martin protests, a little childishly, ‘I’m not – it’s not that he wouldn’t help. I just don’t want his help. And I don’t need it. Or yours.’

‘Well you know where to find us if you do,’ she urges with no loss of enthusiasm, then seems to rally herself and casts about for another topic. ‘Oh, did I tell you about Sophie Waldon?’

00000

‘I can’t do this Arthur,’ Martin’s tone is flat and expressionless, though his features are anything but. He’s concentrating so hard on not crying that he forgets to keep his hands steady; when he tries to stop them trembling, it becomes twice as hard to stop the tears.

‘Don’t say that Skip!’ Arthur speaks bracingly. ‘It’s just a picture frame…Douglas can get a new one.’

Douglas is out; Arthur is on one of his near-daily visits, and Martin is having a Bad Day. He thought he was handling it quite well, until he misjudged the force he needed to turn a corner and clipped the edge of the sideboard on the way past. The impact sent jolts of pain up his leg and a framed photograph of Douglas’s daughter to the floor, where the glass shattered. Martin swore loudly, making Arthur jump, and if he could have, he would have kicked something.

Now he is staring at the frame, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing deeply and shakily to try and regain control.

‘It’s not just that,’ Martin confides, while at the same time urging himself to stay silent. The painkillers make him feel oddly fuzzy, causing his emotions to be unpredictable and his tongue to be much looser than normal. ‘It’s – I can’t – I can’t do _this_ – it’s too much – I’m not – I’m just –’

‘But you’ll be fine soon, won’t you?’ Arthur encourages brightly. He almost picks up the broken photo frame, then decides against it, opting to simply push Martin’s chair away from it. Martin doesn’t protest. ‘You just need to work at it a bit – you’re good at that though, you’ll be back on your feet in no time!’

Martin laughs bitterly. ‘I’m not good at this,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what to do, and I don’t – never mind, ignore me, I’m just…never mind.’

‘But you _are_ , Skip!’ Arthur insists, ‘you _are_ good at this! You’re the hardest worker I know; look at how many times you tried to be a pilot!’

‘Yeah, thanks for that reminder,’ Martin snaps, stung by the fact that Arthur of all people could be reminding him of yet another failure even now.

‘But I mean it! Really, look how hard you worked for it. Even when it was really difficult you kept going – that’s very brave!’

‘ _Brave_?’ Martin repeats incredulously, ‘ _me_? I’m not brave.’

His voice shakes, and Arthur looks shocked.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he replies immediately, in a tone as close to scornful as he is capable, ‘of course you are.’

Martin looks away. ‘I’m not brave,’ he repeats sadly, wishing he was. ‘I’m just…I’m scared,’ he whispers, so quietly Arthur can barely hear him. Part of Martin hopes he won’t. ‘I’m so scared.’

‘So?’ Arthur asks, shrugging, ‘haven’t you ever seen _The Lion King_?’

‘What?’ Martin looks back towards Arthur, startled out of his reverie by this odd reference.

‘Being brave doesn’t mean not being scared,’ Arthur explains, as though it is the simplest thing in the world, ‘it just means doing things even _though_ you’re frightened of them. You’re much braver than Douglas; he’s not scared of anything.’

00000

The good days do come, though they are few and far between. Or perhaps it is simply that the bad days overshadow them. Or that Martin is too busy worrying about what will go wrong next to appreciate the change in fortune while it lasts.

00000

Occasionally, he opens his eyes on a morning and doesn’t dread getting up.

00000

Once, Martin is desperate for a coffee but too tired to bother trying to navigate the high work surfaces and the heavy kettle. Douglas suddenly realises he is late for work, and leaves his own untouched drink for Martin to finish.

00000

Simon’s visit, when it comes, is marginally less uncomfortable that it might have been. True, both brothers are awkward at first. They rarely see each other anymore, both hopping between time zones too often for regular talks to be possible, and they have never had very much in common. But though Martin refuses Simon’s offer of financial assistance, they are soon sharing a chocolate bar while Simon entertains Martin with tales of his own business escapades, which are almost worthy of MJN itself. It is the best chocolate Martin has ever tasted.

00000

Eventually Martin actually starts to get used to moving around in the wheelchair. On a Saturday around two months after the accident, he manages to make it until three in the afternoon before bumping into anything. And then it is the shelf in the supermarket, and a jam jar he would have been otherwise unable to reach topples down neatly straight into his hand. Even Douglas looks impressed.

00000

It is the eighty-third day after moving into Douglas’s house when Martin says it.

He doesn’t mean to. It just sort of slips out, and as soon as he realises it he claps his hands over his mouth and turns bright red.

‘Oh God, I’m – I didn’t mean it, I – of course it’s not _my_ room, it’s your daughter’s room – I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry, I –’

‘You’ve been living here for nearly three months,’ Douglas admonishes coolly, raising an eyebrow as he glances over the top of his newspaper at Martin. ‘Of course it’s _your_ room.’

00000

Hannah is twelve. Oliver is eight. Michael is five.

Martin is not expecting any of them.

‘ _Uncle Martin_!’ Michael shrieks, charging across the room and bowling into Martin’s side with such force he pushes the chair back at least a foot. Martin lets out a huff of surprise and automatically gives his nephew a one-armed hug of greeting.

‘Hey, Mike,’ he manages, a little winded. Oliver waves shyly from near the door, trying to hide something bulky behind his back. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well Mummy said that you were hurt so we wanted to come and see you but only she said she didn’t think you’d want too many people around so we waited a while but then we thought maybe it would be okay if we made you a present so we made one but it took ages because we had to get the size right and you’re bigger than Mummy but you’re smaller than Daddy so –’ he stops to breathe. ‘So it was really hard but we think we’ve got it right and Mummy says we’ve got time to change it anyway if not and we thought it would cheer you up and then we asked about seeing you again and Mummy said she had to check with your friend and then he said it was fine and – and so we’re here now.’

Martin casts a bewildered look up, to see Douglas and Caitlin now standing behind Oliver. With Douglas is a girl several years older than either of Martin’s nephews. Her eyes are the same colour and shape as Douglas’s. They are all – even the girl – wearing identical expressions of barely-concealed amusement.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, frowning even though his lips are already curling into a smile. It’s been too long since he last saw his nephews, and Michael is literally bouncing up and down in his excitement. Suddenly it occurs to Martin just how much he would like to introduce them to Arthur, and his smile widens at the thought.

To his surprise, it is the girl who answers. The accompanying eye roll can only have come from her father.

‘I thought the little sproglet explained it fairly well,’ she says, gesturing with something between contempt and reluctant fondness at Michael.

‘Hannah,’ Douglas warns, but Michael’s face lights up.

‘Does she mean me?’ he asks, looking first at Martin, then Caitlin. ‘Am I a sprog-let? What’s a sproglet? Is it a good thing?’

‘It means _kid_ ,’ Hannah translates. Her tone is impatient, but her eyes are warm. She seems to be at an age where she is simultaneously embarrassed by Michael’s antics, and desperate to join in with them.

‘Oh,’ says Michael. Then, ‘I’m a kid! That means I _am_ a sproglet doesn’t it? Is Ollie one as well?’

‘Yes,’ Hannah replies shortly, ignoring Douglas’s look.

‘ _Brilliant_!’ Michael exclaims, and Martin actually laughs aloud. Oh yes, he _definitely_ wants to introduce them to Arthur.

‘Well?’ Caitlin prompts, giving Oliver a little nudge towards Martin. Martin isn’t sure if it is just him, or she is trying desperately not to laugh. Oliver shuffles nervously on the spot, both hands behind his back. Something papery protrudes over his shoulder. ‘Give Uncle Martin your present, then.’

Martin casts an automatic glance towards Douglas, but father and daughter both have carefully straight faces, completely blank of any expression at all. Martin narrows his eyes briefly at them, but then returns his attention to Michael, who is tugging on his sleeve.

‘Well Mummy says that you might not be able to use it for a while but see Ollie had this lesson at school and then he told me and we had this idea that maybe –’

‘Mike,’ Caitlin interrupts gently, ‘how about you let Ollie explain for once, okay?’

Michael stops abruptly, nods and steps back, instantly silent. Martin is impressed; Douglas glances between Caitlin and Hannah as though hoping to pick up tips.

‘Well…’ Oliver begins, talking to the floor. Looking at the pair of them, Martin is reminded forcefully of himself and Caitlin as children, and tries to smile encouragingly. ‘Well it’s like Mike said…my teacher said…it wasn’t really part of the lesson, but Kelly asked about them and…’ he breaks off, scowling and scuffing his toe on the carpet.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Douglas asks Caitlin suddenly, glancing pointedly towards the kitchen. Caitlin quickly nods and follows him out of the room. Hannah remains in the doorway, hovering uncertainly; does she want to remain with the children (for Martin has been classified among them, at least for now) or does she want to be one of the grown-ups? After a moment’s indecision, Michael jumps forward and grabs her hand, pulling her further into the room. She protests only half-heartedly, smiling weakly.

‘Come on!’ he exclaims, ‘you can help us show it to him! Go on, Ollie!’

‘Here,’ Ollie mutters stiffly, thrusting something like a clumsily hand-made kite into Martin’s hands. Martin tries not to look too confused,

‘Thank you,’ he says, turning it over. He finds if he tugs slightly at the flimsy wooden struts holding it together, it opens out like a fan. ‘Err…what…what is it?’

‘It’s your wings!’ Michael announces, unable to contain himself any longer. ‘Look, open it properly and you’ll see! It looks a bit like a butterfly but it’s not really it’s meant to be a squirrel well not a real squirrel but –’

‘Miss Godfrey told us about flying squirrels,’ says Oliver, still not looking directly at Martin. ‘She said – well – she said that they can’t really _fly_ , because they haven’t got proper wings. But they have like this skin between their legs –’ he stretches his left arm above his head and sticks the corresponding leg out beside him, waving his right hand between them. As he gets into the flow of explanation, he seems to become much more animated. ‘She said that they jump between the trees and stretch out –’

‘Like this!’ Oliver interrupts, demonstrating by doing an enthusiastic star-jump.

‘And the skin kind of catches the air like a parachute so they can sort of…glide.’

‘So then Ollie told me and I thought of _you_ Uncle Martin and I said what if we made you some sort-of-wings like that and then maybe you could fly like you always wanted to but Mummy said not until you’re out of your chair but Daddy said that shouldn’t be long and he got us the stuff and Ollie got loads of pictures of the squirrels from his animal books –’

Martin’s eyes are prickling uncomfortably, and he blinks to clear them. Michael looks immediately concerned.

‘Are you okay? Did we do it wrong? We’re sorry Uncle Martin; we didn’t mean to make you sad!’ He throws his arms around Martin once more, and Martin returns the hug shakily with one arm, holding out the other for Oliver. Oliver edges forwards and wraps his own arms around Martin and his brother a little nervously, being very careful not to touch Martin’s legs too much.

‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ Martin tells them, his voice slightly muffled between their shoulders. ‘It’s absolutely lovely. Thank you very, _very_ much.’

He finds he can’t say anything more, because there is a lump in his throat which makes talking difficult, so he just tightens his arms around his nephews, who by now are both grinning.

00000

‘So you’re the infamous Douglas Richardson,’ Caitlin says casually, perching on the island in the middle of the kitchen as Douglas boils the kettle.

‘Infamous?’ Douglas repeats, glancing around, ‘I like the sound of that.’

Caitlin lets out a sharp laugh, ‘yes, I thought you might.’

‘Sugar?’ Douglas offers; Caitlin shakes her head.

‘You know, he never stops talking about you,’ she adds conversationally, swinging her legs and looking around the room curiously. ‘We don’t spend a lot of time together really. We used to be quite close, when we were younger. But I guess we just…grew apart. It happens. It was worse after Dad died. We do try and help, but Martin –’

‘Yes,’ Douglas interrupts, ‘I’d noticed. It took hours to convince him to accept the offer to stay here.’ He hands her a steaming mug, which she accepts but puts down, focusing her attention on Douglas with an intensity which is almost unnerving.

‘Only hours?’ she queries, ‘you must be persuasive.’

‘I like to think so.’

‘Anyway…whenever we do talk, it’s about one of two things. Depending on who’s doing the talking; I talk about my boys. Martin talks about you – well; MJN; but mostly you, if I’m honest.’

‘I’m flattered,’ says Douglas automatically, not sure how to take this information, or indeed why Caitlin is telling him. A part of him is screaming in triumph that Martin would carry tales about him to his family. Another part argues that of _course_ he does; Martin has little else _in_ his life but MJN.

Then he squashes that thought, because now Martin _doesn’t_ have MJN, and it’s a surprisingly painful notion.

‘This is a nice place,’ Caitlin announces.

‘I would thank you, but I’m sensing an ulterior motive.’

‘Why would I have an ulterior motive for complimenting your house?’

‘If Martin has told you as much about me as you implied, you will know that I am something of an expert when it comes to ulterior motives. I’m also well versed in evasion, lies, half-truths and tactical changes of subject. Just so you know.’

The atmosphere in the room has changed now. Both of them have lost their friendly, slightly playful tones; both expressions are guarded, serious; sizing each other up like two cats preparing for a fight.

‘You’re a clever man, Mr Richardson.’

‘And you seem to be a clever woman,’ Douglas concedes, ‘so get to the point.’

‘My point is,’ Caitlin replies, a little sharply, ‘that just because I don’t see my brother very often anymore doesn’t make me _blind_.’ She pauses, then slides off her perch and takes a step towards the door before adding, ‘my husband is a policeman.’

‘How nice for him,’ Douglas responds, for lack of anything better to say. He is feeling distinctly wrong-footed by this encounter, and is genuinely struggling to believe that the confident, dangerous woman in front of him is related to the Martin he knows. The bubbly demeanour she displays around her brother has completely vanished.

‘His latest accident aside, Martin is happier now than I’ve seen him in a very long time. Do make sure he stays that way, won’t you Douglas?’

She strides away from him to join Martin and the children in the other room before Douglas can think of a reply.

00000

By the time Douglas makes it back to the living room, Hannah has Michael on her shoulders and Martin is laughing freely. There are little coloured plastic beads, of the type Douglas has often seen on bikes, decorating his wheels now. They slide along the spokes and click whenever he moves. The wing-like contraption his nephews brought has been spread to its fullest extent and fixed somehow to the back of the chair. Hannah is grinning, all former awkwardness forgotten; Oliver is explaining something to her about otters, while Martin recounts their eventful trip to Devon. Michael exclaims _brilliant_ so often Douglas begins to suspect Arthur is in the room.

Douglas is still reeling a little from the conversation in the kitchen. Unless he is very much mistaken – which he never is – he has just had _that_ talk from Martin’s sister. The ‘ _if you break his heart I will break you_ ’ talk. He has been subjected to it before, of course, but in the past he has always already been in a relationship when it happened. Is Caitlin assuming that they are…? Or is she just warning him as a friend, as someone who has an unprecedented amount of influence in Martin’s life at the moment? Has he actually _misinterpreted_ her meaning? Has Martin told her something, or has she mistaken something Martin has said? Is she just being overly cautious – just in _case_ …?

He remembers the conversation with Herc, some four months ago.

_So are you going to tell him? … I’ve seen that look on your face before … You’re absolutely smitten aren’t you? … He looks at you the same way…_

And now Caitlin as well:

_He never stops talking about you … Martin is happier now than I’ve seen him in a very long time. Do make sure he stays that way, won’t you Douglas? …_

Suddenly, Douglas finds himself picturing an able bodied Martin telling Hannah stories and entertaining his young nephews in this room. Martin; fully recovered, still living with him a year or more down the line. Martin has managed to integrate himself quickly and almost seamlessly into Douglas’s home life and it strikes Douglas that the house would feel very _empty_ without him now.

He watches Martin listening intently as Oliver moves on to explaining his ambition of becoming a vet. He notices that the little boy talks about it with the same fevered passion as Martin talks about flying. He sees, even if Martin doesn’t, how much the Captain’s nephew looks up to him. He sees the glow of admiration in Oliver’s eyes when he says ‘Gregory at school says I’ll never do it, he says I’m not smart enough. But I told him that’s what people said to my Uncle Martin about being a pilot and now he’s a _Captain_.’

He sees the furious blush that rises in Martin’s cheeks; he sees Martin trying not to smile. He sees Martin telling Oliver that of _course_ he’ll make it, if that’s what he really wants to do. He sees that Martin would make an excellent father, and Hannah seems to like him and –

 _What_?

Where the _hell_ did that come from?

What – what is he even _thinking_?

For goodness sake they’re not even _together_ –

 _And you’re never likely to be_ –

And he’s thinking about – about what kind of _father_ Martin would make?

 _Really_?

What is _happening_ to him?

00000

Over the next few weeks, the only person Douglas watches closer than Martin is himself. If Martin realises, he doesn’t comment. He is growing more confident – by Martin-ish standards at any rate – by the day, and seems almost at ease with his situation now. True, he sometimes becomes despondent and depressed again; sometimes he gets angry for no reason, or snaps at Arthur with unwonted harshness, but all in all he is improving rapidly.

And the more Martin returns to his old self – picky and pompous, fussy and worrisome, amusing and ambitious – the harder Douglas finds it to argue with Herc’s assessment and Caitlin’s veiled warning.

He wants it to be true. He _wants_ to see Martin looking at him…however Herc has seen it. He wants Martin to be the happiest Caitlin has seen him in years, and he wants to be the cause. He wants to deserve the trust Martin has put in him these last few months.

He doesn’t know when this started, and that is perhaps the scariest part of all. He can’t identify the moment he was lost, can’t say with certainty that it was _then_ , when _that_ happened, or when Martin said _this_. He can’t even really pinpoint the moment he _noticed_ it had happened. He can trace his conscious awareness back to his conversation with Herc…but had he realised before then? Was it when he saw the crash? Afterwards, in the hospital, when it registered just how scared he was? Was it when he thought he might actually lose Martin – or was it long before?

00000

Eventually they both stop measuring time in the number of bad days versus good, or how many weeks since the accident, or how many more until Martin is on his feet again. They fall into a comfortable routine, and while Martin adjusts to asking when he needs help, Douglas adjusts to not forcing assistance when Martin refuses.

Douglas has never seen Martin as excited as when he is given the crutches and told he will no longer need the wheelchair. He’s rarely seen _anyone_ that excited before.

It scares him.

As Martin grows stronger and more independent, he starts talking with more and more enthusiasm of when he will be able to move out. The only other time Douglas has seen him so animated about anything has been flying. After a month, he has had enough.

‘If you’re so keen to get away from here then just say,’ Douglas snaps, interrupting Martin mid-speech. ‘I’ll help you pack.’

‘I – what? No, I – I didn’t mean it like that, Douglas, you know I didn’t –’

‘It’s fine,’ Douglas insists shortly, ‘it’ll be a relief to have the house to myself again.’

He stands and grabs their plates to wash up, pretending not to see the hurt expression on Martin’s face.

‘I…right,’ says Martin, reaching for his crutches and pushing himself slowly to his feet. Douglas does not offer to help. ‘Okay. Of course. I’m…sorry about…yes. Well. Yes.’

For several seconds an awkward silence stretches over the pair of them; Martin opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and Douglas ignores him, clattering noisily at the sink with his back turned.

‘Right,’ says Martin quietly. Douglas pretends not to hear him turn and hobble into his room.

Douglas’s chest hurts. It actually physically _hurts_. He turns the tap off, throwing his plate none too carefully into the filled sink, and leans against the worktop. He listens to the sounds of movement coming from Martin’s room and wonders for the hundredth time how he got to this stage – when the mere suggestion of Martin leaving, or rather of Martin _wanting_ to leave, makes his heart ache.

‘Martin,’ he calls suddenly; the sounds of movement pause, but not for long. ‘Martin?’ Douglas pushes open the door to Martin’s room, trying to keep his expression as smooth as possible when he is faced with an open and already half-filled suitcase on the floor beside the bed.

‘I think it’s best if I go,’ says Martin shortly, not looking at him. ‘I didn’t mean – but – well, I think –’

‘Don’t do this.’

‘I’ll be off the crutches soon anyway. There’s no way I can repay you for – everything you’ve done. I’m very grateful.’ Martin’s voice is clipped and toneless, which unnerves Douglas more than anything; he doesn’t sound angry or upset or prissy or any of the things he usually sounds. It’s just…blank.

‘You don’t have to go, Martin. And you don’t have to repay me. Look – just – sit down for a second, will you? We can sort this out once you’ve calmed down –’

‘I am calm.’

 _Yes_ , thinks Douglas, _that’s the problem._

‘Oh come on, look, I didn’t mean it. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you like, really.’

Martin ignores him and continues to ransack draws, practically tipping their contents, unsorted and unfolded, into the suitcase. His hands are beginning to tremble. Douglas can’t help but take this as a good sign.

‘Martin, stop.’

‘I’m fine,’ Martin replies automatically; his voice shakes.

‘Martin –’ Douglas takes a step forward, reaching out a hand.

‘I said I’m _fine_!’ Martin exclaims, throwing the stack of books he has just picked up to the floor and whirling to face Douglas. The sudden movement is too much, and he overbalances, his legs threatening to crumple beneath him. Douglas jumps forward and catches him round the shoulders before he falls, but Martin wrenches himself away and sinks onto the edge of the bed. He covers his face with his hands. ‘I need to get out of here, Douglas,’ he implores, and now he sounds desperate. ‘I can’t – I’m _suffocating_. I can’t stand being…I’m _trapped_ , I need to be able to – I hate not being able to drive or fly or – or _walk_ properly, I hate having to –’ he tries to tug his arms from the plastic loops of the crutches which encircle them, but one of his sleeves is caught. ‘I hate relying on – I hate – I hate these _fucking_ crutches!’ He finally rips his arms free, tearing one sleeve in the process, and throws them across the room.

Douglas, taken aback by the sudden burst of vehemence, says nothing. The pain in his chest intensifies. All the comforts and platitudes he had had lined up fall flat; he has voiced them before a hundred times over. He takes a deep breath.

‘I want you to stay.’

‘Douglas –’

‘Permanently.’

That gets his attention. Martin’s head snaps up and he stares at Douglas, frowning in confusion. When he catches sight of Douglas’s expression, his eyes widen in disbelief. Douglas doesn’t know what he sees there, but he is glad of it.

‘I’m – please, Martin. Stay.’ He sits carefully on the bed beside Martin, watching the Captain’s face all the while to gauge his reaction. He has, for once, stopped thinking about what he is saying and is just letting the words come by themselves. Martin’s lips part with incomprehension and Douglas’s eyes are automatically drawn towards them.

‘You –’ Martin begins.

Douglas, without realising it, has moved closer. Martin is still frowning.

‘Are you –?’

Martin's eyes are dancing nervously over Douglas's face; he looks terrified, but he doesn't move away when Douglas leans in.

He brushes his lips against Martin’s, quick and feather light, and pulls back. Martin’s eyes couldn’t possibly get any wider, but other than that he doesn’t react; he looks utterly paralysed with shock. Douglas’s heart feels like it’s doing double time, and in his throat. Neither of them speaks. Douglas moves forward again, kisses Martin more firmly this time, and Martin begins to respond but then leaps back as though he has been burned.

He looks horrified.

‘I’m – I – I have to –’ his crutches are on the other side of the room, but he scrambles to his feet nevertheless, clinging to the end of the bed for support and putting as much distance between himself and Douglas as he can. ‘I’m – sorry, I – just – I’m going –’

‘Martin –’ Douglas stands and moves to help, but Martin pushes him away and he falls back a step, unable to do anything but watch as Martin struggles across the room, both hands on the wall for balance, towards his abandoned crutches.

‘I’m – I’ll –’ Martin tries again, once he has retrieved them and is standing – almost – straight again. ‘I have to go,’ he mutters at last, and with a surprising burst of speed he is out of the door and down the hall before Douglas can react.

Douglas hears the front door slam and lowers himself back down onto the bed again with his head in his hands.

00000

Martin is out of the house and halfway down the street before he gives any thought to where he is actually going or what he will do when he gets there. He has no car and couldn’t drive one if he did. He can barely walk. He is already exhausted. He has none of his things; no cash, no keys, just a phone with a half-dead battery and a single, crushed polo still wrapped in crumpled foil in his pocket.

He cannot go back.

He has nowhere to go _but_ back.

He keeps walking.

His legs ache. His arms ache. His face is burning red with humiliation.

How could Douglas have _known_? He has been so careful; so very, _very_ careful, and the constant effort of not letting his feelings show has been as emotionally draining as his injuries have been physically so. He had thought he was quite used to it; had become something of an expert, in fact, spending so much time on the flight deck or in dingy hotels in Douglas’s constant company – but living with him is another matter entirely. Being almost literally _always_ with Douglas, and trying _so hard_ not to let anything slip…

And somehow – but perhaps it is no surprise after all, this is _Douglas_ after all – Martin has been found out. And of course Douglas couldn’t leave well enough alone, he never can…it was surely too much to hope that he would simply ignore it, the better for both of their comfort…no, Douglas had to _parade_ his knowledge, use it to mock and belittle Martin even more, yet another thing for him to boast about…Not enough that he can already claim the attentions of anyone he likes outside of MJN, he has to add Martin to the list as well. Yet another slight against his Captaincy and yet so much more _personal_ …

He has walked almost a mile before he realises it, but he daren’t pause. He knows if he does he won’t be able to start again; he will have to admit defeat.

He stumbles on.

How can he go back to live with Douglas now? Where else has he got to go?

How can he go back to MJN?

It’s this thought which threatens to bring forth a sob, but Martin holds it in check, deliberately fuelling his own anger in order to supress the fear and disappointment.

The muscles of his arms feel like they are burning. They scream for him to stop.

He doesn’t.

For another five minutes.

Then he collapses onto a soggy wooden bench and gasps for breath, trying to bring himself back under control and think of a way out of this alone.

Still acting on a panicky sort of auto pilot, he finds he has his phone in his hand with Carolyn’s number highlighted, thumb poised over the _call_ button.

00000

‘What on Earth have you done?’ Carolyn demands, cutting across any greeting Douglas might have had planned. Douglas frowns and presses the phone to his ear.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Martin –’

‘Is he alright?’

‘Douglas, I am going to ask you one more time. And believe me I am asking with my serious face, whether you can see it or not. _What have you done_?’

‘ _Nothing_!’ Douglas insists, with a passable imitation of indignation. He checks his watch. Martin stormed out over an hour ago. Worry coils itself in his gut.

‘Now why don’t I believe that?’ Carolyn asks.

‘We had a disagreement. Martin walked out,’ Douglas explains shortly, ‘is he alright?’

‘He’s fine,’ is Carolyn’s equally terse reply. ‘Although he seems to be under the impression that he won’t be able to return to your house; he was halfway to the student place before he gave up and called me. Why would that be, I wonder?’

‘Like I said,’ Douglas replies, ‘we had a disagreement.’

‘Over what?’

‘We are grown men, you know, Carolyn. We can look after ourselves.’

‘ _You_ might be able to, although I would seriously argue with the first part of that statement. Now: _over – what_?’

‘Personal matters,’ Douglas replies icily. His head is throbbing. There is a pause, and he can practically see Carolyn rolling her eyes.

‘I expect you here in twenty minutes.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You heard me. Twenty minutes, Douglas.’

She hangs up before he can reply.

00000

Twenty five minutes later, just for the sake of being difficult, Douglas is outside Carolyn’s front door. He speaks as soon as Carolyn opens it.

‘Is Martin here?’

‘You’re late.’

‘Noted. Is he here?’ Douglas brushes, uninvited, past Carolyn and into the hall.

‘He’s with Arthur. What in the world have you said to him, Douglas? I’ve never seen him so confused, and believe me that is saying something.’

‘Forgive me, but I really don’t think that’s any of your business.’

‘If it involves my pilots it involves MJN, which happens to be my _actual_ business, so I’m going to have to disagree with you on that one.’

‘We had a misunderstanding.’

Carolyn glares at him; he is about to make a crack about her attempting telepathy, before she suddenly rolls her eyes and looks, if possible, even more exasperated than before.

‘You are a pair of absolutely first rate dolts, do you know that?’

‘I have heard it said,’ Douglas drawls, ‘would you mind telling me why?’

‘I am a mother. Believe me when your daughter gets to be Arthur’s age you’ll recognise that look too.’

‘What _look_?’

‘The one that practically screams _oh dear I am an irredeemable moron, I’ve made a complete mess and I don’t know how to get out of it, won’t you please do something Carolyn and I will owe you forever_? Or words to that effect, at least.’

‘And what do you suggest?’

‘I suggest you talk to him.’

‘Haven’t we established that that didn’t go well?’

‘I said _talk_ to him, not _stick your tongue down his throat_.’

‘I didn’t stick my tongue down his throat!’

‘No,’ Carolyn muses, ‘I can’t think what’s taken you so long to get around to it; I would hardly have thought that He of the Thousand Stewardesses would find it so difficult to seduce the most desperate man this side of Pluto.’

‘I don’t want to _seduce_ –’

‘No,’ Carolyn repeats, interrupting. Her voice has softened. ‘I don’t believe you do.’ Then she calls over her shoulder, ‘Arthur? Come out here, the grown-ups need to talk now. Or at least, the pilots do.’ She stops Douglas before he can step round and take Arthur’s place in the room behind her. ‘For once in your life, Douglas; try being honest.’

00000

Martin looks as dejected as Douglas has ever seen him. He is huddled in the chair furthest from the door and looks – he actually looks _frightened_ when Douglas walks in.

‘It’s okay,’ says Douglas quietly, closing the door behind him and attempting a smirk. ‘I’m not going to kiss you again. Well, not unless you want me to.’

‘I don’t need your pity,’ Martin spits, with surprising vehemence.

‘How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t _have_ my pity?’

‘If you’ve come here to gloat, or – or –’

‘What do I have to gloat about? I assure you even I would have trouble seeing how I can come out looking good in this one. I mean, you’re the one who just rejected _me_. Isn’t any pity better placed the other way around?’

Martin turns away and mutters something Douglas can’t hear.

‘Are you alright? Carolyn said you got halfway to the student house and called her. She didn’t say if you’d been hurt or anything.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘One day I’ll believe you when you say that.’

‘Douglas –’

‘Look, Martin –’

Both of them speak at the same time, then both fall silent. Martin waves his hand for Douglas to go first.

‘I apologise if I misread the situation. It won’t happen again. You are quite welcome to move back in and we can forget this ever happened. If you’re uncomfortable with that, then I can help you find other arrangements. Who knows, Carolyn might even let you stay here.’ He pauses. ‘She offered, you know, when you were still in hospital. I think you gave her quite the scare…you gave us all one.’

Martin looks up at Douglas, frowning. Douglas makes a conscious effort _not_ to disguise the slight quaver in his voice.

‘I don’t…if you’re just mocking me…’

‘Mocking you?’ Douglas repeats, genuinely confused, ‘why would I be mocking you?’

Martin blushes bright red.

‘Okay, listen to this carefully because I will only say it once. I was wrong.’ At this, Martin actually almost smiles. ‘Herc and your sister –’

‘What’s my sister got to do with anything?’ Martin exclaims, looking panicked. Looking, Douglas thinks, very much like someone whose secret is out. He smiles.

‘I’ll get to that. The point is; they appear to have realised before I did. When you were hit, when I saw you on the road, I –’ for a moment, Douglas’s voice fails him. Martin looks terrified and desperately hopeful at the same time. ‘I’ve genuinely never been so scared,’ Douglas admits quietly. ‘Herc pointed it out. I ignored him, of course. I mean really, of all the people I could have fallen in love –’

‘ _What_?’ Martin gapes. He looks very much as if he might faint.

‘Let me finish. Of all the people I could have – fallen for. And then your sister decided to give me The Talk about breaking your heart. And then…when you kept saying how much you wanted to leave…oh look, I’m sorry, this is ridiculous, can’t we just forget it ever happened and move on?’

‘You said…fallen in love,’ Martin stares at him weakly. ‘You said you’d…you’d fallen…’

‘I said could we forget it?’

‘In _love_?’

‘Well what on Earth did you think; I kissed you because it might be fun to add another notch to the bedpost or something?’

Martin is silent. Douglas sinks into the chair closest to his.

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you did, didn’t you? Do you really think _that_ little of me?’

‘I thought…maybe…maybe you’d…’ Martin speaks to his hands, twisting them together in his lap. His face is burning and his chest feels like it might burst. Douglas…Douglas _can’t_ be…he can’t…this isn’t real, it isn’t… ‘I thought you’d guessed about…me and…maybe you’d…figured out that I was…that I had…feelings for…that I loved…and you’d…thought it would be funny…’

By the time he has finished, his words are barely audible and it’s Douglas’s turn to feel simultaneously elated and afraid. And, if he is honest, a little insulted.

‘No,’ he says quietly, ‘no, I wouldn’t do that.’

There is a long silence, broken only by what Douglas is sure is the sound of someone shifting position on the other side of the door.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Martin. Douglas laughs, but doesn’t reply straight away.

‘I meant what I said,’ he announces eventually. ‘I want you to move in permanently. If you want. We don’t have to –’

With a sudden burst of confidence and strength, Martin lurches to his feet without his crutches and Douglas automatically stands to support him only to find his collar being grabbed by desperate hands and his lips crushed onto Martin’s. In a few seconds Douglas is taking nearly all of Martin’s weight, and collapses backward again, ending up sprawled in the armchair with Martin in his lap.

‘Am I to take that as a yes?’ Douglas asks breathlessly, grinning. Martin’s only reply is to pull him roughly into another kiss.

Douglas hears the door open and doesn’t care; hears Carolyn hissing an admonishment to someone and pays no attention. Then Arthur’s voice bounces across the room.

‘ _Brilliant_!’

**Author's Note:**

> Just My Luck was an angsty fill to an angsty prompt and it was supposed to end there. Then I just needed a fix-it for myself, which I wasn't going to publish - I started writing it two days after Just My Luck, because it turns out that's about as long as I can deal with thought of killing off a character properly. Then I was going to publish it, but it would only be very short. This was the result. There are still a few stray plot bunnies milling around, but for now at least it's done.
> 
> I am not a doctor, so excuse medical errors. Martin’s injuries and recovery time are actually roughly based on something which happened to a friend (who has now made a full recovery, by the way).
> 
> I don't think Douglas's daughter is ever given a canonical name or age but do correct me if I'm wrong.
> 
> By the way my apologies to the prompter for JML for not actually killing Martin off, in the end. I just couldn't do it. :(


End file.
